All the Way Home

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  Stunned, Michelle looks at her husband’s agonized face and says, “My God, Lou, I thought you were having an affair . . . or worse.”

  “An affair?” He makes a choking sound, a laugh or a sob, and shakes his head. “Why would I have an affair?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe because I’ve been driving you crazy lately, complaining about everything. God, I didn’t know I had nothing to complain about then. Nothing that mattered.” She’s crying now, great heaving shudders that rock the baby in her arms but don’t interrupt her hungry gulps.

  “It’s okay,” Lou says, coming to stand by her, putting his hands on her shoulders. “We’ll pull through this, Michelle. No matter what.”

  No matter what.

  She knows what that means. No matter if Ozzie comes back to them safely, or if he’s—­

  The phone on the bedside table rings.

  She and Lou look at each other.

  “Answer it,” she tells him, filled with dread. “It might be the police. Maybe they’ve found him.”

  “Maybe,” Lou says, but there’s little evidence of hope in his tone or expression as he wearily picks up the receiver.

  So.

  According to Jack, Russell Anghardt had been arrested over a decade ago by the Grayson Cove police, for molesting his children’s fourteen-­year-­old baby-­sitter.

  Barrett should have suspected that it would have taken something like that to drive him out of town, moving back up North with his two kids. Of course, it’s been his dirty little secret all these years. Jack managed to uncover that detail by bribing some retired cop he’d run into down at the luncheonette.

  It seemed that Jane Anghardt’s wealthy family in Raleigh had managed to keep the news out of the papers, and had hired an expensive lawyer to get him acquitted through a legal loophole. Russell had been estranged from his wife’s family ever since her death, when Jane’s parents tried to gain custody of the twins.

  It seemed they were convinced that he was some kind of lowlife, and their daughter had gotten entangled with him as a form of rebellion against the polite southern society in which she’d been raised.

  “They were probably right about him being a lowlife,” Jack had said. “Child molester, too. But he managed to stay out of trouble after leaving North Carolina.”

  “Yeah, or he just didn’t get caught,” Barrett had said.

  He and Jack had quickly pieced together the rest of the story.

  How, after his acquittal, Russell Anghardt must have beat a hasty retreat out of town, taking Emily and David up North, settling in Lake Charlotte, near his hometown, where he’d been raised in a run-­down orphanage. He had placed David in a home, probably to avoid the kind of conspicuous, relentless teasing the boy had endured in Grayson’s Cove, and he had warned Emily not to tell any of her new friends he existed.

  “Who knows what kind of abuse that poor girl suffered at the hands of her father,” Jack had speculated, shaking his head sadly.

  “Obviously, he’s a likely candidate for chief suspect as the sick monster who kidnapped the other three girls in Lake Charlotte that summer,” Barrett had said. “We’ve got to tell the police there what we’ve found out, Jack.”

  “I’m going to do just that.”

  And that’s where the lawyer is, presumably, right now, while Barrett restlessly paces back and forth in his tiny cell, puzzling over the rest of the mystery. It makes sense that Russell Anghardt, an accused child molester who happened to live right on Hayes Street, would be responsible for the disappearances of those four girls ten years ago.

  His own daughter—­well, he must have been abusing her and just snapped, killed her, destroyed the body.

  And the others . . .

  Kirstin Stafford had been riding her bike on the bike path along Lakeshore Road. According to her father, her tires had needed air. What if she’d gotten a flat, and decided to hike, with her bike, up the path through the woods that Barrett had realized just last week leads directly to the backyard of 54 Hayes Street? She must have fallen right into Russell Anghardt’s lap.

  And Allison Myers had vanished from a July Fourth picnic at Point Cedar Park, a park Barrett himself knows well. There’s an entrance to the park on one end of Hayes Street; it’s the park that has the playground where Carleen used to take Molly. Had Allison Myers wandered away from the crowd at the picnic? Had Russell Anghardt been lying in wait?

  And what about Carleen? She used to cut through the woods on her way to meet Barrett on Lakeshore Road. He knows now she must have gone through the backyard of the house next door to get to that path. Through Russell Anghardt’s yard. In the middle of the night. When she was supposed to be asleep in her bed.

  Carleen Connolly hadn’t vanished from her bed, as her mother had assumed. She was supposed to meet Barrett that night.

  She must have been abducted by Russell Anghardt from his own backyard.

  If she weren’t trying to meet me, she wouldn’t have disappeared, Barrett tells himself, wincing against a barrage of guilt. Guilt he’s grown accustomed to. Because somewhere deep down, he has always known that Carleen hadn’t vanished from her bed, and that if he hadn’t run scared like a coward, he could have gone to the police with that information. Maybe it wouldn’t have solved the mystery, but he should have gone.

  He’ll have to live with that knowledge for the rest of his life.

  The one chance he has of easing the guilt even the slightest bit is to help find Molly, and Ozzie, and Rebecca. Rory must be beside herself, and the Randalls, and the Wasners.

  But Barrett has no clue what could have happened to the three missing children. Russell Anghardt is dead, and, according to the medical examiner, has been for over a week.

  So he couldn’t have kidnapped Molly, Ozzie, and Rebecca.

  Who did?

  Barrett frowns, wracking his brain, desperately trying to come up with a likely suspect and drawing a blank.

  I was right.

  It’s the first thought that flits into Rory’s head as she gapes into the unmistakable face of the girl who had once been her best friend.

  Emily is still alive.

  And . . .

  Her mother was right, too. Her mother might be fading into insanity, but she still has her lucid moments.

  When she told me she saw Emily, she wasn’t hallucinating. Oh, God, Mom . . . I’m sorry. I’m sorry I dismissed you so flippantly.

  You were right, Mom.

  Emily is really here.

  But . . .

  Emily?

  Emily’s the one who’s responsible for this?

  And gradually, as she stares at her, and time seems to have dragged to a halt, Rory vaguely notes details. Peculiar, garish details.

  Like the oversized plaid flannel shirt she’s wearing in the summer heat.

  The tweedy cap, the old-­fashioned kind with the visor and ear flaps, a few strands of long blond hair escaping it.

  And, on her feet, a big pair of men’s work boots.

  The kind of boots her father always wore. And that hat, and the shirt . . .

  “Emily?” She finally finds her voice, staring at her friend with a potent mix of apprehension and utter confusion.

  “Emily’s dead” comes the reply, barked in an unnaturally low, gruff tone.

  Bewildered, Rory can only stare, now taking in the gun in Emily’s hand, and the terrified little boy she’s aiming at.

  Ozzie Randall, his face dirty and tear-­streaked, is huddled on the dirt floor at Emily’s feet, clad in pajamas, his little arms and legs bound with rope. He’s the picture of misery, his body wracked with silent shudders, what little sound that escapes his throat sounding hoarse, as though from hours of crying.

  Her gaze moves past Ozzie, back to Molly, and she realizes, with a start, that Molly is wearing a black minidress that had
once belonged to Carleen, and one of Carleen’s old headbands around her black curls, and a pair of big, dangling earrings.

  Molly looks just like Carleen, she realizes. What is she doing in Carleen’s clothes?

  And what is Emily doing dressed up like her father?

  None of this makes sense.

  She turns back to Emily, acutely aware of the gun in her hand, the gun that’s pointing at the frightened two-­year-­old. She knows she has to do something, fast, before something tragic happens. Her hand tightens around the handle of the knife still concealed in the folds of her shirt.

  “What are you doing here?” she asks Emily.

  “One guess,” Emily says with a brittle laugh. “I was homesick, so I came back to Lake Charlotte.”

  “When?”

  “Oh, a ­couple of weeks ago, I guess.”

  “You’ve been hiding in this house all that time, Emily?”

  “I told you, I’m not Emily!”

  “I’m sorry . . . Mr. Anghardt,” she adds tentatively, and sees a satisfied expression on Emily’s face.

  “Are you ready to die now, Rory?”

  Chilled, she struggles not to betray her horror at those words, spoken so casually.

  “Die? Why do you want me to die, Mr. Anghardt?”

  “For Emily’s sake. Because she tried to tell you . . . she tried to make you see what was happenin’ to her. And you ignored it.”

  “What, though? What did I ignore?”

  Just keep her talking, Rory tells herself. Wait for a moment to catch her off guard, and then make your move with the knife. Go for her eyes. Gouge out her eyes.

  Oh, God.

  Can I do this?

  She glances at Ozzie, at Rebecca, and finally at Molly. Their lives are hanging in the balance. She has to do it.

  “You ignored the clues!” Emily barks. “You ignored Emily’s clues. She knew for sure that you’d figure it out.”

  “Figure what out?” Rory’s hand tightens around the knife handle.

  “What I was doin’ to her. All the time. Whenever I felt like it.”

  “Oh, God.” Rory stares at Emily’s face in horror.

  “I made her my own little sex slave,” Emily says with a bitter laugh. “And then, she wasn’t enough for me. Started fightin’ me. Threatened to tell someone. So I found others. I kept them right down here, chained to that very wall, and no one ever knew. Not even Emily. This door is soundproof. Nobody ever even heard them screamin’.”

  Rory struggles to digest what Emily is saying, her mind racing, her knife poised.

  She’s talking about Carleen, Rory realizes. Carleen, and Kirstin Stafford, and Allison Myers. Russell Anghardt abducted them, kept them in this dungeon, made them . . .

  She feels weak. Like she’s going to pass out.

  I can’t. I have to stay strong. Steady. Wait for the right moment.

  “So Emily never knew?” she forces herself to ask, as though this is the most ordinary of conversations. Two old friends catching up.

  She doesn’t dare look at Molly, or anywhere but Emily’s face. She’s afraid that the moment she breaks the connection, Emily will stop talking.

  And kill me.

  “No, Emily didn’t know. Not for a long time. Not until one night, when I got careless sneakin’ into her room—­the bookcase is in her room, you know. But she never knew about the secret door. I never told her . . . not until she woke up and found me openin’ it that night. That’s when I told her the whole story. How I stumbled across it accidentally, not long after I bought the house. Who knew this fallin’-­down old house was hiding such a treasure? I bought it so cheap, Rory, from that old lady . . .”

  Mrs. Prendergrast.

  “. . . and when I found this room, I knew it was a sign. I knew what I had to do, because it was so obvious, so perfectly obvious. A man has needs. A man can only fight his needs for so long. That’s what I told Emily. I had needs, Rory. And she should understand. It was her duty to fulfill them, because if it wasn’t for her, her mother would have been there to do it instead. But Emily killed her mother, Rory. Emily and her brother did it, just by bein’ born. It wasn’t my fault that Jane was gone, and I had to find other ways to fulfill my needs.”

  This is insane, Rory tells herself. She’s insane. She’s taken on her father’s personality.

  It sounds eerily as if Russell Anghardt is actually talking. Emily’s voice is deep, and has that same faint southern twang she remembers hearing on the few occasions when Emily’s father would speak more than a word or two.

  He’d seemed so quiet. So insignificant. How could Rory never have realized that he was such a monster? How could she never have known of the danger that Emily was in?

  And now she’s going to make me pay the ultimate price for being so blind, she realizes with sickening certainty.

  “What happened when you showed Emily the room, Mr. Anghardt?”

  “Oh, she was all worked up. She knew those girls, you know . . . my beautiful slaves. One of ’em was already dead, though. I had to kill her, to shut her up. She was a screamer, that one. The first one. Kept cryin’ for her mommy. So I shut her up good.”

  Thirteen-year-­old Kirstin Stafford.

  “Emily begged me to let the other ones go, though. She even tried to attack me—­picked up a sledgehammer I kept down here, just in case somebody got out of control, and she hit me with it. Hit me in the leg. And when I tried to come after her, she took off. Just took off, just like that.”

  “Where did she go?”

  “She wandered around from place to place. Did what she had to do, to make enough money to survive. It wasn’t any different from what I used to make her do, ’cept now it was with strangers. And she wasn’t a bad person, Rory. She never lost touch with that brother of hers, even though I used to tell her not to bother with him. If it wasn’t for appearance’ sake, I’d ’a never even bothered to take him out of that home for a visit.”

  “So Emily visited David over the years?”

  “Sure. She’d dress up like a nun, so no one would ever know. It was her little joke. David always called her ‘sister’ anyway.”

  Rory keeps her expression neutral despite her startled realization that she’d guessed right about Emily’s motive for disguising herself as a nun to visit St. Malachy’s.

  “And Emily never visited you for all those years, Mr. Anghardt?”

  “Nah. But I knew she knew where I was. Back home, in North Carolina. I figured she’d eventually come look for me there. Because I was her daddy, no matter what happened between us. I knew she’d come back.”

  “And she did?”

  “Sure did. Just a few weeks ago. Showed up on my doorstep out of the blue. First thing she noticed was that I had a limp from where she hit me. And you know what? I think that made her feel good.”

  Rory nods, willing Emily to break the relentless gaze she’s focused on Rory, to look away, even for a second. Just long enough for Rory to attack her.

  “At first, you know, when she showed up at my door, Emily acted like she was there for a friendly visit. But then I realized that wasn’t it at all. You see, for all these years, Emily’s been mad at me. Gettin’ madder and madder. Rememberin’ what went on between us. What I did to those other girls. Guess she decided she wanted to get me back.”

  There’s a faraway gaze in Emily’s eyes now, but they’re still focused on Rory’s face. If she makes the slightest move, Emily will notice.

  “What did she do?”

  “Attacked me. Tried to kill me.” The voice is indignant now. “But I won. I wasn’t goin’ to let her get me. No, sir.”

  “So you left North Carolina, then? And came here?”

  “Yup. It was easy to sneak back into this house. Those old screens . . . you just climb right in. And those ­people who live here now,
they don’t know about the bookcase. Nobody ever knew, but me and Emily. And, of course, those girls. But that don’t matter now.”

  “Why not?” Rory asks, filled with dread, knowing the answer even before Russell Anghardt points.

  She follows the direction of her gaze, and sees the three grotesque corpses crumpled on the ground not far from Molly’s and Rebecca’s feet. And she knows, without being told, who they belong to.

  Kirstin Stafford.

  Allison Myers.

  And Carleen.

  A wave of dizziness sweeps over her, and she senses she’s going to faint.

  But she can’t let that happen.

  If she faints, she’ll never wake up.

  This is my chance—­she’s looking away!

  The sudden realization stuns her momentarily, and then, knowing that it’s now or never, she leaps on Emily Anghardt.

  “No!” the woman screams.

  Knock the gun out of her hand! Rory commands herself, and does it with ease, taking advantage of the moment Emily let her guard down.

  Then they’re rolling on the floor, scuffling, Rory struggling to hold on to the knife, to position it for attack.

  “No!” Emily shrieks again, and then there’s a blinding pain as she raises her knee into Rory’s stomach.

  Blinding pain.

  Utter shock at the severity of the pain.

  And in that moment, with a savage tug, Emily wrenches the knife from Rory’s fingers and wields it above her head.

  In his North Carolina jail cell, Barrett waits, pacing, for Jack’s return.

  He can’t stop thinking about the Connolly family.

  About Rory, in particular.

  How much pain can one person endure?

  First she lost one sister . . .

  Now another?

  And it’s all my fault, Rory, Barrett says silently. If I had gone to the police, told them what I knew about Carleen’s whereabouts that night, they might have figured it out.

  He stops to rub his exhausted eyes, struggling to grasp any possible clue to the identity of the person who kidnapped Molly and Ozzie and Rebecca.