Blood Trails

by Sharon Sala

  It was nearing dinnertime, and still no papers had arrived from the school. Holly was just getting out of the bath when the hotel phone rang. She reached for a towel as she hurried to answer.

  “Hello?”

  “Miss Slade, this is the front desk. A courier just dropped off an envelope for you. May we send it up?”

  “Yes, please!” Holly said. She hung up the receiver and quickly dried herself off, then grabbed some sweats.

  The knock at the door sounded just as she was getting money out of her purse. She traded the bellman a tip for the envelope, then shut and locked the door. Her pulse was racing double-time as she carried the envelope to the bed and settled comfortably against the headboard before pulling out the contents.

  The pages were few and the information sparse, which was not a surprise. There wasn’t all that much information a five-year-old could accumulate in her first year of school. Still, it was more than a little shocking to see the photocopy of a school photo of the face she’d come to accept as hers beside the name Harriet Mackey. The address and home phone numbers listed were the same ones she had, but there was another name on the form she didn’t recognize. It was the name and number of a person to contact in case of emergency if her parents couldn’t be reached. Someone named Cynthia Peters.

  She reached for the house phone and dialed the number on the form. After twenty years and numerous prefix changes, getting a not-in-service message didn’t surprise her so she searched through the phone book. There were quite a few people with the last name Peters, but no Cynthia or C. Peters listed. Well aware that the woman could be long gone, or married or remarried, with another name entirely, she laid the phone book aside and went back to her school records.

  What surprised her was learning where her parents had worked. Her mother had worked in a dry cleaners and her father for a company called Parks Wholesale. There was a copy of her immunization records, a mention that she’d won a coloring contest at Christmas and a notation of a trip to the emergency room after falling off a slide and injuring her leg. She pulled up the leg of her sweatpants and fingered the small white scar just below her knee. So that was where it had come from. It was beyond strange to put together her past this way.

  She wasn’t surprised there wasn’t anything else useful in the file, but even so, it was something of a letdown. Out of curiosity she searched the yellow pages for dry cleaners, just to see if the place where her mother had worked was still there, and to her surprise, it was, complete with the same phone number. It was, however, past closing time, so calling the number now would be useless.

  After making a quick note of the address and phone number for another day, she looked for a listing for Parks Wholesale, but found nothing. Satisfied that she’d checked all she could for now, she tossed the phone book aside and slipped the pages from her school file into the back of her journal for safekeeping.

  The silence in the room was mocking—as empty as her knowledge of her past. Determined not to get maudlin, she slid down onto the bed with a dejected sigh and closed her eyes.

  The rain was still hitting the windows. She wondered what Bud was doing. Had the snow melted? Was his hand healing? Did he miss her as much as she missed him?

  She kept remembering her last day at the ranch, seeing the blood-soaked towel wrapped around his hand and the pain on his face. She couldn’t get past the memory of his hard, flat belly when he’d stripped off his shirt, or the warm, musky scent of his body as she’d covered his bandaged hand with a plastic bag to keep it from getting wet. Startled by how it made her feel, she rolled over onto her belly in an attempt to stall the growing ache between her legs, and willed herself to cease and desist.

  Just as she was about to conquer the longing, her cell phone rang. She rolled over to grab it from the bedside table, saw the caller ID and tried to ignore the fact that her heart was suddenly in her throat.

  “Hey, I was just thinking about you.”

  Bud exhaled softly as he cradled an ice pack against his throbbing hand.

  “That’s the best news I’ve had all day,” he said lightly, as he kicked back in the recliner and turned his boots toward the fire.

  “Are you okay? How’s your hand?” Holly asked.

  Bud ignored the fact that the fall had popped a stitch, causing it to bleed.

  “It’s fine.” It wasn’t really a lie. It wasn’t messed up enough to go back to the doctor. He’d had worse injuries and treated them with less care, and recovered just fine. It would happen again. Besides, the sound of her voice had put his world back on an even keel.

  “So you were thinking about me and I was thinking about you. How’s that for timing?”

  Holly shifted nervously, thankful he couldn’t see her face.

  “Yes, quite a coincidence.”

  Bud smiled. “So tell me what you did today.”

  Holly began to relate the day’s events, while Bud listened to the rise and fall of her voice, and the intermittent sound of her breathing. It was the transfusion he needed to get through the coming night.

  The storm front that had been hanging over St. Louis finally moved out of the area around 3:00 a.m., leaving the city streets a rain-washed clean.

  Holly’s restless sleep was evident in the tangle of bedclothes wrapped around her legs and the sweat-dampened curls at the back of her neck. She lay on her stomach, one arm hanging off the side of the bed, and both pillows on the floor. The only evidence of the nightmare holding her hostage was the twitching of her feet.

  “You snooped. You knew better than to come down here, but you did it anyway, and now you’ll pay.”

  “No, Daddy, no. I’m sorry. I won’t tell. I swear I won’t tell. Don’t hurt me. Please don’t hurt me.”

  “It’s not you I’ll hurt. You open your mouth and tell what you saw, and you’ll never see your mama again.”

  Holly woke up with a gasp to discover that the sheet beneath her face was wet with tears. Desperate to get out of bed and away from the dream, she didn’t realize her feet were tangled in the bedclothes until she fell trying to stand. By the time she stood up, she was sobbing.

  “God, please help me get through this.”

  She stumbled to the bathroom and began sluicing her face with cold water. By the time she had her emotions under control, she was shivering. She dried quickly, then hurried back into the room, turned on the lamp and straightened the covers before getting back in bed.

  The lamp cast a circle of light into the darkness and right into her eyes, but that was okay with her. She didn’t want back in that dream. As her feet slowly warmed, her body began to relax, but her thoughts were still in turmoil. She feared these nightmares she’d been having were true memories of a resurrecting past.

  She needed to go to the police, and soon. There were a couple more things she wanted to check out first: the cleaners where her mother had worked, and going through the many Peterses in the phone book to see if she could find Cynthia Peters or someone who knew her. Cynthia must have been a close friend, maybe even a relative, to have been named as an emergency number.

  Finally she drifted back to sleep, comforted by the light beside her bed. When she woke again, it was morning.

  Five

  Holly had gone through all the Peterses listed in the St. Louis phone book by 10:00 a.m., but to no avail. No one knew the Cynthia Peters she was seeking, and she doubted the messages she’d left where no one was home would yield anything, either. There was nothing left to do but accept the fact that the woman was either dead or no longer in St. Louis, or had a different last name that made her impossible for Holly to find on her own.

  Frustrated, she tossed the phone book aside and reached for her journal. The road to her truth was in there. All she had to do was decipher it. Now that she was having flashes of memory, there was a section she remembered reading that might finally make sense. She flipped through the pages until she found it, then leaned back against the pillows propped behind her head and began to read.r />
  About six months after you came to live with me, an old trapper named Thorny Paulson came by the house just after daybreak. He’d had a flat and was looking for a better spare than the one he had to get him into Missoula. A couple of the ranch hands switched out the bald rubber he’d been running on and tossed an extra spare into the back, just in case the first one gave out on him, too.

  It was obvious he’d been in the mountains for a good while. Sorely in need of a bath and a haircut, he looked every bit the wooly trapper that he was. You were leery of him from the beginning and stayed close by my side. No matter how much he tried to charm you into a smile, you weren’t having it.

  Finally it came time for him to leave, and we walked him out to say goodbye. Maria saw the stack of pelts he had in the back of his truck. Nothing would do but that she had to have a closer look. Happy that someone was interested, Thorny opened up the back and sat Maria up on the tailgate. She sat down on the stack and dug her little hands into the pelts, laughing and jabbering about how soft they were. Savannah was in the house asleep, and last time I’d looked, you’d stayed behind on the porch.

  Then all of a sudden I felt you sidle up beside me. I laid my hand on your head and was shocked to feel your entire body trembling. When I looked down, you were staring blindly at the furs. I started to ask you if you wanted up in the vehicle with Maria when your eyes rolled back in your head. You fainted flat out in the dirt.

  Maria scrambled out as Thorny took his leave. She followed me as I carried you into the house. I have to admit, I was scared. You were such a little thing, and so limp. Maria thought you’d fallen down. She kept talking to you, trying to get you to answer. I carried you into the bedroom you girls shared and laid you on the bed. Maria crawled up beside you and curled herself around you, then began patting your tummy, telling you it was okay to wake up now. I wondered if she was remembering her own mother lying on the floor, and if she was afraid you wouldn’t wake up, either.

  I can tell you for sure we were both relieved when you began to regain consciousness. You opened your eyes and muttered something about not telling Daddy’s secret. I asked you what you meant. You looked horrified, as if you’d said something you shouldn’t have, and then your expression went blank. Afterward you claimed not to know what I was talking about. To this day, I believe you knew something about what he’d done. It may have been why your mother wanted you gone. Yes, she intended to tell the police. I fully believe that. But I don’t think she was as concerned about what the media might do to you if your father was arrested as she was about making sure you were out of his reach.

  “Lord, Lord,” Holly whispered. As awful as it was to consider, it actually backed up some of the things she was beginning to remember.

  She closed the journal and then dropped it into her purse. Today she was going to find the cleaners where her mother used to work, and if she was lucky, she would also find someone who remembered her, but first, she needed to find her shoes.

  It didn’t appear to Holly as if Dalton’s Quality Cleaners, In Business Since 1978, had updated their storefront since the day the place opened. It wasn’t exactly seedy, but one could definitely say it lacked curb appeal. She got out of her car and walked inside, curious to see the place where her mother had spent so much time.

  The interior was about the same as the exterior, but the place was busy. Mechanical racks of bagged clothing filled a good two-thirds of the place. She stepped into line behind two other customers—one who was picking up, the other dropping off. The twentysomething woman at the register would certainly have been too young to have known her mother, but Holly was optimistic. Finally the other customers were gone and Holly stepped up to the counter.

  “Name, please,” the woman said.

  “I’m not here to pick up,” Holly said. “I have a question. Is there anyone who would have been working here twenty years ago?”

  The young woman looked up. “I don’t know. Why?”

  “My mother worked here back then. I’m trying to find someone who would have known her.”

  “The owner is here. Give me a minute, and I’ll go back and ask.”

  Holly’s tension grew as she waited. Finally the clerk came back with a fiftysomething woman at her side. The older woman stopped at the counter, eyeing Holly curiously.

  “I’m Lynn Gravitt. Bonnie said you wanted to talk to me.”

  Holly nodded. “Yes, ma’am. Is there someplace where we could talk for a few minutes?”

  “What about?” Lynn asked. “You’re not some process server, are you?”

  “No, no! Nothing like that,” Holly said. “My name is Holly Slade, and my mother used to work here twenty years ago. I was hoping to talk to someone who might have known her.”

  Lynn’s demeanor shifted noticeably as she smiled. “Oh…well, Lord knows I’ve been here that long and then some. What was her name?”

  “Twila Mackey. She—”

  Lynn gasped. “Sweet Lord! Are you Twila’s girl? No, wait…her name wasn’t Holly, it was—”

  “Harriet, but I go by Holly now.”

  Lynn’s eyes widened. “Harriet! That’s right.” She waved at the clerk behind the counter. “I’m taking my break now,” she said. “Back in a few.” She took Holly by the arm and led her outside, and then around the side of the building to an old iron bench sitting up against the outer wall. “We can sit here.”

  Holly scooted onto the bench. There was so much she wanted to ask, but Lynn spoke first.

  “What happened to you two? One day you were here, and the next you were both gone. Your father filed a missing persons report. I heard he hired a private detective, too, but it came to nothing. Where is Twila these days?”

  “That’s part of why I’m here,” Holly said. “I haven’t seen my mother or father in twenty years. In fact, I don’t remember much of anything about them or the first five years of my life.”

  Holly watched the color visibly fading from Lynn’s face.

  “You’re not serious?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I’m afraid I am. How well did you know my mother? Were you close friends? Did you know anything about my parents’ relationship?”

  Lynn swept a shaky hand across her forehead. “I knew plenty. I knew your father was an asshole. He was abusive and controlling, and Twila was afraid of him.”

  “Why did she stay with him?” Holly asked.

  “I used to ask her the same thing. She would always shrug and say that she couldn’t make enough money to take care of you by herself, so I’m guessing she stayed with him to make sure you had a roof over your head and food in your belly.”

  Holly felt sick. If she wanted to play with what-ifs, then the mere fact of that she’d been born could have gotten her mother killed—if, in fact, she was really dead. However, she wasn’t ready to take herself down that road.

  Lynn eyed Holly closer. “You say you haven’t seen your mother? So what happened to you?”

  “I was sent to live in Montana with a friend of hers, but it was only supposed to be for a little while. She was going to come get me so we could start over somewhere new as soon as she settled some stuff with my dad.”

  Lynn slapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh, my God! Are you saying she stayed behind to tell him she wanted a divorce?”

  Holly wasn’t going to get into the serial-killer aspect of the story, since it was obvious her mother hadn’t mentioned any of that to Lynn.

  “I’m not sure what she was planning to do. All I know is she never made it to Montana.”

  Lynn grabbed Holly by the wrist. “That means Harold lied about everything—about the both of you disappearing at the same time, I mean.”

  “Yes, I realize that,” Holly said. “Unfortunately, I have no idea where he is, so—”

  Lynn jumped up from the bench, her face flushed, her expression animated.

  “I do! I know right where that lying bastard is at!”

  Holly felt the ground shift beneath her feet. It took every
ounce of courage she had to ask, “You do?”

  “Hell yes! He still works for the same wholesale warehouse he used to, driving the same delivery truck he’s driven for nearly thirty years. I see him now and then, but we don’t speak. He doesn’t like me any better than I ever liked him.”

  Holly’s hands were shaking, but she had to keep pushing. All of this would matter when she went to the police.

  “I thought they weren’t in business anymore. I looked in a phone book, but—”

  “Oh. Right. You wouldn’t know. The old owner sold out to another company ten, maybe fifteen, years ago. It’s Riverfront Wholesale now, which is stupid, because they’re not on the riverfront, but whatever. They moved to a larger warehouse here in St. Louis but kept most of the employees who weren’t ready to retire.”

  Holly felt sick. She had to leave—now. The skin was crawling on the back of her neck as she began digging in her purse for her car keys.

  “I really appreciate you taking the time to talk to me, but I wonder if you’d do me a favor?”

  “Sure, honey. What do you need?”

  “Don’t tell anyone I’m in town, especially my— Especially Harold, if you should happen to see him.”

  “Trust me. My lips are sealed,” Lynn said.

  “I’d better let you get back to work,” Holly said, and stood. “Thank you again.”

  Lynn shrugged. “You’re welcome. Really sorry about your mama.”

  Holly had no words for the fact that Lynn had immediately assumed that if Twila had gone missing, Harold was responsible.

  She got in her car but was too stunned to trust herself to drive. She kept thinking about a mother she couldn’t remember, sacrificing herself to make sure Holly stayed safe. The longer she sat, the more determined she became to see justice served.

  She finally drove away, giving herself a stern reminder that she needed to think instead of react every time she got another piece of news she didn’t like. She wasn’t a crybaby, and she was disgusted that she’d been letting her emotions get the best of her.