The Girl in 6E

by A. R. Torre

  CHAPTER 70

  CAROLYN THOMPSON

  CAROLYN RINGS MICHAEL’S doorbell, looking at the wilted geranium that sits on the stoop. She hears the chimes fading through the home, then the door opens and Becky stands before her.

  Becky: a woman she has never liked, never welcomed, never made a friendly effort with. An oversight of manners that might cost her dearly. The woman had once been beautiful, but pinched skin, a perpetual frown, and worried eyes have aged her early. Becky seems always to fret, a habit that is in full force as she stands before Carolyn, twisting a rag in her hands, swaying gently on uneasy feet.

  “Carolyn,” she says shortly. “What are you doing here?” No concern for her situation, no worry expressed for Annie. There is a reason that Carolyn has never cared for her, a reason that is showing its teeth now.

  “I need to talk to you about Michael. May I come in?”

  “I’m busy. And, as you probably know, the police were here last night. Interrupted us during dinner. You can find any answers that you need from them.” She starts to close the door, but Carolyn steps forward, pushing the door open and moving into the foyer.

  “No, Becky. As rude as this may seem, I need to talk to you.”

  Becky gapes at her, glaring at Carolyn’s feet as if she is shocked to find them there, inside her home, invading her personal space. She finally raises her gaze to Carolyn’s, frowning at her and shutting the door.

  “Fine. Sit in the dining room, if you refuse to leave. What do you want to know?”

  CHAPTER 71

  I JUMP OFF the table quickly, cursing myself for not bringing a flashlight, especially since the window is placed on the wrong side of the building to receive any sunlight.

  “Annie?” I speak quietly, in the friendliest voice I can manage. “My name is Deanna. I am here to help you. Can you tell me where you are?”

  Silence meets my question. A moment stretches into two, and my hands begin to clench and unclench in panic at the time lapse. “Annie, I know you don’t know me. But I want to get you out of here. I want to return you to your mommy. Can you please help me?”

  I hear a sniff and spin, trying to place its origin. My left. I move in that direction, blinking rapidly, trying to see in the dark, second-guessing the direction of the sound. I freeze when I hear her speak. “I want my mommy.”

  I find her before she finishes speaking, my hands reaching out, closing over soft skin and flannel. I instinctively pull her to me, my arms closing around her in a hug, the first hug I have given in a very, very long time. The smell of her brings back memories of my sister, of Christmas mornings and bedtime stories. I almost sob at the memories but instead plant a quick kiss on her head and release her. My hands pat gently over her, following her limbs until I discover the rough rope, knotted tightly around her wrists and feet. I tug at the knots but give up quickly; the complicated bindings are too tight. “Stay still,” I say quietly. I pull out my knife and flip open the blade to cut the ropes, not bothering to see where they lead. She behaves, sitting perfectly still until I pull her to her feet. Then she resists, tugging back against my hand and flattening against the dirty wall of the shed. I can feel her fear, the seesaw of her desire to leave the shed and her wariness of me.

  “I’m going to need you to listen very closely to me, okay?” I crouch, touching her shoulder gently, feeling her nod.

  “I will not hurt you. I only want to return you to your parents. If you come with me, you can be with your mommy and daddy very soon.” I keep my voice light and happy and feel her relax, her small shoulders dropping slightly.

  “Okay. Is Uncle Michael coming back?” she whispers.

  I freeze at the question, wishing that I could see her face, could know the emotion between the quiet words. Uncle Michael. Ralph Michael Atkins.

  “Was he here?” I asked, holding out my hands, asking for her permission before picking up her light body and placing her on the table.

  “He brought me here. I’m supposed to wait for the kitten, but he never came back, and it got dark.” Her voice shakes, the barely contained hysteria evident.

  I climb onto the table next to her. “Annie. I need you to be really grown up for me for about ten minutes, okay? Be strong, sweetie. It’s really important. I’m going to crawl through the window, and then I’m going to help you out. Do you understand?”

  I can see her faintly now, dawn having fully arrived. She nods, her face tightening into a determined frown. I smile at her. “Good girl.” I move through the window and jump easily down to the dirt. Then I move back to the sill, reaching out with my arms and feeling her eager body, her bare feet stepping up. In the next moment, I have her cradled in my arms and out of the shed. My cell buzzes in my pocket, and I reach for it, my other hand clasped firmly around Annie’s.

  “Hey.”

  “Jess, I’ve got to go. I just wanted to check in with you first.”

  “No more activity on his credit card?”

  “What do you expect? A shopping spree on the way to see her?”

  “A girl can hope,” I mutter, whispering to Annie to hurry, my hand tugging hers. Then I realize, as we move, that her feet are bare, and I slow down slightly to allow her to pick her way through the rocky dirt. “I got her, Mike. We’re heading to the truck now.”

  “That’s awesome, Jess. Really fucking awesome.” I can hear the smile in his voice, stretching his words, and I smile despite my fear. I have her. I have saved this girl, without fantasizing about harming her in any way. Now I just need to get away before he arrives. Mike’s next words mimic my thoughts. “Now get out of there.”

  I can hear Mike moving, the rustle of keys, a few taps on a computer, and I speak quickly. “I am. Thanks, Mike. See you online sometime.”

  He laughs in my ear. “Definitely, babe. Glad to help.”

  I hang up, smiling down at Annie. “Ready to go home?”

  She nods, hesitancy in her face, fear mixing with hope, the faint glow of trust in her eyes. The look breaks my heart, reminding me so much of Summer. Children are the quickest to trust because they have no concept of the depravity of our species. Summer trusted, as I once did. Before I knew what existed in the world. Before I found that darkness residing in my own soul.

  We run together, finally reaching soft dirt, allowing her bare feet to fly, my backpack bouncing against my back. The run distracts her, and a small laugh spills from her mouth, the simple act of bare feet digging into dirt entertaining. Worry, the pressure that any moment we could see the cloud of dirt road smoke that will follow Ralph’s truck, could hear the roar of his engine, grips me. But I still feel giddy, blown away by the insane possibility that my rescue attempt may work, that she is beside me and we are almost to safety. We squeeze back through the gate, jump into the ruts of the baked dirt road, and race to the truck, and I let her win. I buckle her in the passenger side, the familiar movement painful in its normalcy. Putting the truck in reverse, I experience one heart-stopping moment when the tires spin, but then they catch traction and we move, flying backward onto the dirt road, no other vehicles in sight, freedom in our grasp. I head left, for Brooklet, my mind thinking through the best way to return her as I drive. I am distracted, high on our escape, and almost don’t notice the vehicle that turns right as we prepare to turn left. A dark blue Ford Explorer. My mind follows a moment after my vision, and I slam on the brakes as I watch it disappear in a cloud of red dust. Ralph Atkins. Georgia tags—X42FF—navy blue Ford Explorer.

  Decision time. Ralph is here. I breathe hard, emotions shooting through me like heroin, every nerve in my body twitching, focusing on the need to destroy. Through the roaring in my head, I hear a voice and turn in my seat, trying to focus on her. Annie. Sweet and innocent, her mouth moving, words saying something. I frown, fighting a losing battle in my seat, concentrating on her lips. My mind clears briefly, and I hear her voice.

  “—are we stopping?”

  I grip the steering wheel, trying to sort out t
he madness from the logical—what I should do versus what I want to do. I should keep driving, ensuring that she will remain safe. I should get her home. I should give the information I have uncovered to the police.

  I shut my eyes tightly, trying to breathe, trying to think, but they flip open of their own accord. I press the gas and yank the steering wheel roughly, jerking out into highway traffic and skidding into a tight turn before accelerating back down the dirt road.

  I pull into the first farmhouse we come to, driving around to the back. The yard is empty, no cars in the drive. I park and turn to Annie, my eyes focusing and finding her. I grip the steering wheel, trying to concentrate on her face, trying to attempt to inject some normalcy in my voice. But I see from her eyes that she can sense something is wrong.

  “Annie. I need you to go and wait on this porch. I will be right back. Do you know your parents’ phone number?” Please say no, please say no. My evil subconscious chants the words, ready to leave this girl and follow that Explorer.

  She shakes her head, and I breathe a sigh of relief. “Okay. I’m going to leave you a cell phone and set a timer on it. If the timer goes off without me being back here, I want you to use it to call 911. Do you know how to call 911?”

  She looks at me soberly. “Momma says I shouldn’t call 911 unless it’s an emergency.”

  “And you shouldn’t. I don’t want you to call it unless the timer goes off. I should be back here before then, so you probably won’t need to call them at all.”

  Her eyebrows pinch together, the expression so sweet, so full of concern, that I just want to hold her in my arms and kiss her head. “You’re leaving me? Alone?” Her eyes grow large, moisture making them shine. “I don’t want to be alone again.”

  I try to breathe normally, to speak clearly and in a calm manner. “I’ll only be gone for a bit. Fifteen minutes. I need you to wait here, on the porch. Then I’m going to take you home, to your parents.”

  She looks down, fingering the nylon of her seat belt. “I don’t want to be locked in the dark again.” She sniffs, her voice shaking a bit. “I was scared, in that place. Uncle Michael was different…not like he is at Momma’s.”

  I have got to go now, I can feel the urgency pulling at me. Ralph is at the house now, will have discovered her gone. What if he leaves? What if I miss my opportunity? What if he escapes?

  I fight to keep my voice calm, a smile on my face. “I know, sweetie. I’m taking you away from there, away from him, I just need you to do this one thing for me, okay? Do you feel safe here? Can you wait on this porch for me?”

  She looks at the porch, sun filling its deep surface, big pots on either side of the back door overflowing with bright red zinnias. Her fingers grip the seat belt, and her voice is small when she answers. “Yeah.”

  With shaky fingers, I pull out my phone and set the timer on it. I hold it out to her, showing her how to silence the alarm and how to dial the emergency call. Then I hand it to her, fighting to keep my face calm and my eyes on hers. “Stay on the porch, and don’t make that call until the alarm goes off. I plan on being back here before it goes off, okay?”

  She nods, her face solemn.

  “Go on, Annie. Sit on the porch and wait.”

  I watch with twitchy fingers as she sits, waving to me with her small palm. Then I swing the truck around and floor it toward the dirt road.

  GO.

  CHAPTER 72

  IT IS RETURNING, the rush of intense need, flooding my veins and traveling through my limbs, causing my hands to shake and my breath to come in short, tense pants. For the first time in my life, I am grateful for its presence. Being with Annie stunted my mind, the fear of losing her crippling my body’s ability to travel to this point, my brain and thoughts centered on her and getting her to safety. It is the first time, in as far as I can remember, feeling fear. When you are the darkest presence in the room, there is very little to fear. An opportunity to interact with evil would only justify any violent actions my body might take. But when I was accountable for her, when her innocent life was in my hands and I was relied upon for protection…my demonic urges failed, withered and suffocated by the mothering instinct that was concern. Concern for her safety, concern that I, if engaged in a confrontation with Ralph, might fail her.

  Now that she is safe, now that he is in my sights—that fear is gone, replaced with the uncontrollable urge that is my obsession. I want to kill, I need to kill, I have a target before me. It is the first time I haven’t fought the feeling, haven’t tried to control it with closed eyes or a redirection of my mind. Instead I embrace it, flexing my hands around the shaking steering wheel, celebrating the release of dark energy as it spreads through my body.

  The gate is now open, the chain hanging loosely from metal piping, and I swing the truck in, all concerns of stealth gone. A battle is before me, and I almost moan at the excitement of it. After four years of waiting, I feel beyond ready, panting at the thought of it.

  The Ford Explorer is parked at an odd angle, his approach probably as hurried as mine. The door to the shed stands open, and he appears in the doorway at the same moment that I step out of the truck, my hands tucked into my sweatshirt, one palming the knife, the other my gun.

  It is amazing that with all the chats, the multiple times that I have heard his cruel voice, I have never seen his face. No smiling photos in the documents I received from Mike. No identification or screenshot to prepare me for his likeness.

  I have imagined him in my mind for so long, my imagination creating a monster of grotesque features and proportions. But standing in the opening of the shed, his head tilted and eyes sharp, is just a man. Slightly balding, twenty pounds too heavy, whose mouth is turning into a sneer. Whose eyes are narrowing, stance strong, the combined effect sinister. This man, this balding, thick man, has whispered in my ear, poured out the disgusting thoughts in his soul, showed me the dark evil in his heart. And now he is stepping closer, the excitement radiating from his body like a foul smell.

  Come on…baby. Come on. Closer, you sick fuck. I want to smile, giddiness spreading through my body at the joyous task before me. I am about to kill. About to take a life, feel live flesh, and carve its breath in a burst of blood. I am almost overcome with excitement, the concept of dropping my barriers strange, my push to contain these demons so ingrained that it feels odd to open that latch, odd to let myself think, feel, and act without censorship or control. But I must be smart. I must be quick. I must punish this man and get back to Annie. I must remember what happened with Jeremy, his overtaking of my body. How quickly I was brought under control, how the tables were reversed and he was on top and holding me still.

  The gun. The gun is the best chance. I should pull it now, stop his forward advance. Then fire a shot that will kill. Done. Mission accomplished. No chance of error. It was also fucking boring. I have fantasized for four years over this moment, envisioned countless killing scenarios, 90 percent of which involved close contact, a blade, and an intimate encounter of the killing kind. Not a gun, ten feet away from the target, one trigger pull and a human body’s flop to the ground. Anticlimactic. Disappointing.

  I contain my smile, wanting to put him at ease, wanting him to think that he is in control, that he is the aggressor in this battle. He steps fully out of the shed into the morning light, and my hand releases the gun, leaving it in my pocket as I step forward and wonder if he will recognize me.

  I can feel his panic. Not at me, not at this young girl before him in a sweatshirt and sneakers. His eyes have already glanced over me, running up and down my body, dismissing me as a threat. No, his panic is over Annie. Wondering where she is. Wondering what happened to his plans, his restraints. Wondering how far she has traveled and how long she has been gone. I am a distraction, a waste of time that should be dealt with quickly so he can move forward and secure his prize.

  I can’t stop it, can’t stop the grin from stretching across my face, the glee at this possibility spreading through my b
ody. He hesitates, the friendly expression confusing him, his eyes squinting at me as he moves forward, our bodies within two steps, and suddenly stiffens.

  His beady eyes examine my face, hesitantly and then boldly, his face hardening as recognition slowly dawns. Incredulity, then anger gleams in his eyes.

  “What are you doing here?”

  He is unarmed—his soft body stiffened only with his newfound anger. He has no need for a weapon; his victim is a helpless six-year-old girl. My confidence grows at the same time that his brain processes the possible reasons for my presence. He steps back, looking toward the shed, his eyes studying the broken window, the empty shell. I stand there, wondering at the intelligence level of the man before me, so much about him unknown, and wait for him to make the connection.

  I can see the moment it happens, the slow draw of his gaze from point A to point B. My presence. Annie missing. My knowledge of his carnal desires. Understanding hits, and his head whips back to me, his eyes blazing with raw fury.

  “You. Little. Bitch,” he grounds out, stepping toward me. I move quickly in response—learning from my mistakes with Jeremy. I cannot let him grab me, must catch him off guard and unprepared. I yank out my right hand, the stiletto blade tight in its grip, and press the release button while moving. The sharp blade shoots into place, the sharp jerk beneath my palm making my legs clench and stomach curl. This is the moment. This is my time. The guilt—that giant boulder that suffocates my shoulders, telling me that my thoughts are wrong, my intentions twisted—is gone, and my conscience is light, doing nothing to impede the rush of energy flowing through my body. The knife shakes slightly as my hands tremble from excitement, and I eye his neck, my sharp gaze examining the curves and valleys I will soon puncture. He sees my knife and pauses, stopped momentarily by the reflective flash of a weapon in my hand.