Words

by Ginny L. Yttrup

  "Yeah, sounds like a bad scene." Officer Mackenzie taps his pen on his clipboard. "So what happened?"

  "Early this morning the guy left. Oh! I jotted down his license plate number." I get up, go to the kitchen, and pull a page out of my sketchbook. "Here it is. After he left, I . . . um . . . I went into the cabin. It wasn't locked. I know that's probably not legal . . . but . . . well . . . anyway, I went in."

  "And?" He taps his pen again.

  "I found her clothes—a T-shirt she was wearing the first day I saw her. And"—I hesitate—the memory still sickens me—"I found some pornography. Pictures of children . . ."

  Officer Jameson mutters an expletive. Though I wouldn't have said it myself, it expresses my feelings exactly.

  "Ma'am—Ms. Bickford—I assume the child didn't come back?" The pen tapping stops as he copies down the license plate number I gave him.

  "No, she didn't. Not while I was there. Do you think . . . I mean . . . does the porn mean anything? I'm just worried that—"

  "You're right to be concerned. The porn and the abuse usually go hand in hand." Officer Mackenzie shakes his head. "Hard to believe what people will do to a child."

  I notice a gold band on his left hand and wonder if he has children of his own.

  "Makes you want to take the law into your own hands sometimes. If anyone did that to my little girl"—Officer Jameson rubs his forehead and then shakes his head—"I don't know what I'd do. But I'll tell you what, he'd be sorry he ever messed with her."

  "Keep your cool, man. Ms. Bickford, I assume there wasn't an address?"

  "No. Nothing. In fact, I don't even know how to tell you to get there, but I could show you."

  "Good. Sit tight. Let us run the plates and see what we come up with."

  "Oh wait, I have one more thing for you." I get up and head to my bathroom. I grab my jeans off the floor and reach into the front left pocket and pull out the paper I took from the nightstand. "Here. Looks like a pay stub or something. It has his name on it—at least I assume it's his name." I glance at the slip of paper. "Jackson Tully."

  "Thanks. That helps." Officer Mackenzie gets up. "I'll check the plates. You want to call in?"

  "Ms. Bickford, may I use your phone?" Officer Jameson follows me to the kitchen as Officer Mackenzie heads for their car where, if television has taught me well, he'll radio in the license plate number.

  I busy myself while they do their thing. I go back to the bathroom, pick my clothes up off the floor, and toss them in the laundry hamper. I go to the spare bedroom and move brushes and tubes of paint around to keep busy. The unfinished canvas—the abstract of Kaylee's tree—sits on an easel in the corner of the room.

  I stand and look at it. I'm reminded of my dream the night I began painting it—Annie in her coffin inside the tree. The interior of the tree appeared as death to me that night, its burnt, charcoal interior a tomb. Yet for Kaylee, I realize the tree probably represents life. Safety. A place of her own.

  From death comes new life. I ponder the thought a moment. It strikes me as something my mother would say—or maybe something I've heard her say. I'll have to ask her about it.

  "Ms. Bickford?"

  I walk out of the bedroom and down the hall. Officers Jameson and Mackenzie are standing back in my living room.

  "I ran the plates and the truck is registered to a Jackson Emerson Tully, which matches the name on the stub you found. He lists a San Jose address, but that doesn't mean much. He has several unpaid tickets so there's a warrant out for him. We don't typically pursue unpaid tickets by tracking someone down and arresting them, but we can use them to bring him in if we need to." Officer Mackenzie glances at Jameson. "Are we cleared to go?"

  "Yep. Another unit will meet us in Bonny Doon and we'll all go up from there."

  "Once we meet up with the other officers, we'll have you give us a description of the girl. Ms. Bickford, you okay to follow us up there? If we make an arrest, we'll need the room in the squad car to take him in."

  "Sure, that's fine."

  "Okay, in case we get separated, we're meeting the other car at the elementary school. Know where it is?"

  "I do. I'll see you there."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Kaylee

  With my head resting on my knees, I scrunch my shoulders together so they cover my ears and block out the sound of something rustling leaves somewhere close by. If I don't hear it then I don't have to think about it. I swallow the lump in my throat and take deep breaths until my stomach stops clenching. With my ears covered, I focus on listening to my breathing and nothing else. This helps push away the thoughts scurrying through my mind like scenes from a scary movie. Though I can't seem to block them completely.

  I open my eyes and see nothing but darkness surrounding me. I close my eyes and see him. I won't let myself think about him.

  Instead, I open my imaginary box of words. There are yellow letters all jumbled inside—all the letters that make up my special words. Sometimes I take them out in alphabetical order. I have to do this with my eyes closed so I can see them in my head. I take them out and put them in a list. It takes lots of concentration. I can't think about anything else when I do this or I'll forget a word.

  Allocate.

  I like that word. I like words with double Ls. I like the way they feel in my mouth when I say them. Even if no sound comes out, I like the feel of the tip of my tongue hitting the back of my front teeth.

  I like some words just because of the way they feel in my mouth. I like other words because of what they mean. Sometimes I like a word for both reasons.

  Zoology.

  That's good for both reasons. Z words tickle my tongue. Maybe I'll be a zoologist when I grow up. I like animals.

  I go back to alphabetizing my words.

  Anteater.

  That's my second word. Anteaters look funny. We saw a movie about them in school. I might like animals but I don't like skunks. And I smell one.

  I lift my head off my arms and look around. Even in the dark, I can see the white stripe on the back of the skunk waddling straight toward me. I jump up and press my back against the tree I was leaning against. My heart flutters in my chest as I turn to run.

  When I'm sure the skunk can't catch me, I find another tree to rest against and sit down. The bottoms of my feet sting, so I cross one leg over my other knee and turn my foot so I can see the bottom of it. It's too dark to see much, but when I run my hand over it, it feels sticky—like it's bleeding. I feel things sticking into my foot—pine needles, splinters, thorns, little rocks. I try to pull them out but it hurts so much. I do the same to the other foot. Then I lean my head back against the tree trunk, close my eyes, and take deep breaths again until the waves of nausea go away.

  Azure.

  Bazooka.

  Colossal.

  I get to the Z words and then start all over. When I'm back to my favorite L word for the second time—lackadaisical—I decide I can't be lackadaisical anymore. I have to get up and keep walking. I have to figure out where I am and how to get back to the cabin.

  I stand and try walking on the outsides of my feet, but then my ankles hurt. I just have to walk normal. I take slow, careful steps and hope that I don't step on anything else that's sharp. Every step hurts.

  I walk the rest of the night. I walk until I can't take another step. When I finally sit down, I hear birds chirping. I look up through the trees and see that the sky is starting to get light. Exhausted, I lie down.

  I decide to just stay right where I am. I can't walk anymore and I still don't know where I am. I'll probably just lay here and die. That's the last thing I think. That I'll probably just die right here.

  Maybe, just a little bit, I even want to.

  I don't know how long I sleep, but when I wake up the sun is up
and the birds have quieted some. I stretch and the muscles in my legs cramp and my feet ache—the pain makes my stomach clench again. I try to work the cramps out of my calves by rubbing them and then standing on each leg and taking small steps until my legs finally loosen up. As I stand there, I think I hear something. Something I didn't notice before.

  Water?

  Is it the stream?

  The sound is faint; I can barely hear it. But it sounds like it's straight ahead.

  Each step I take hurts, but I can't miss another day at the cabin. It's okay to be gone for an hour or two sometimes. But I can't be gone whole days. I have to get back in case today is the day. She might come back today.

  With each step I take, that's what I tell myself.

  Today might be the day.

  Today might be the day.

  My mom might come back today.

  Finally I see the stream. I hobble to a part where the bank rolls into the water. I sit on the edge of the bank and dip my feet in. I flinch when the water touches my feet. I double over, my breathing heavy. But I keep my feet in the water, swishing them around, washing them off so I can see how bad they're hurt. They're bad. I put them back in the water and leave them there. The cool water begins to ease the pain.

  I look around and try to decide which way the cabin is from here. I still don't recognize anything, but I know if I follow the stream I'll eventually find the log where I normally cross and then I'll know where I am.

  I look up and down the stream and decide to go down. I don't know why but it just seems accurate.

  acc·u·rate—adjective 1. free from error or defect; consistent with a standard, rule, or model; precise; exact.

  For awhile the stream is shallow and sandy, so I walk right up the middle of it, which feels better on my feet than walking along the bank. But when the water reaches the tops of my knees and I see rocks on the bottom, I climb back up to the bank and sit for a minute.

  For the first time since last night, I let myself think about what will happen if he's there when I get back. But then I remember that he doesn't come home every night.

  Maybe last night was a night he stayed out.

  Maybe I can sneak in and he'll never know I was gone.

  I get up and start walking along the bank. I stay close to the stream so I'll see the log. Things are starting to look familiar maybe—like I'm getting close. Then, up ahead, I see the place where the stream bends like an S. That's it—that's where the log is! I run—well sort of run and sort of hobble until I reach the log. I sit down on my bottom and scoot across the log just like Sierra did. When I reach the other side, I know I'm almost there.

  What if he's there?

  I wish I had a dog like Van. He could protect me. I could train him to attack. This thought makes me smile. When I smile, my forehead feels like it straightens out, like it's been scrunched up all night. That's how my mom would look when she was worried about something—usually when she was looking into her wallet and it was empty—then she'd scrunch her forehead and squint her eyes.

  The closer I get to the cabin, the harder I strain to see if his truck's there. But I can't see through all the trees. Finally I get a clear look at the cabin. His truck isn't in the driveway.

  He's not there!

  If everything didn't hurt so bad, I'd do a little dance.

  I climb up the steps of the stoop and open the door to the cabin. When I walk in, my heart feels like it drops to my knees. I can't move. I just stare. Five empty beer cans lay on top of my mattress.

  He knows.

  He was here and he knows.

  I bend, push the cans off my mattress, and lie down. I pull the blanket tight—the smell of beer surrounds me and reminds me what I've come back to.

  I've come back to him.

  He'll be back.

  And he'll be mad.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Sierra

  We've made drug busts up here. There's a dirt road—an old logging road—that runs through this area." Officer Mackenzie points to the map that's spread atop the squad car. Officer Jameson and the other two officers nod. They know the road.

  "Ms. Bickford—Sierra—you think the cabin is about here?" He points to the spot I indicated earlier—earlier when I'd had them dispense with the Ms. Bickford. "If that's the case, let's loop back and catch the dirt road and go in from here." He points to the squiggly line that marks the road. "If we don't find it, then we'll have you walk us in from the clearing you showed us."

  "We'll find it. We were up here last month—there's millions of dollars' worth of marijuana growing in this coastal range. We arrested a pot farmer just last month. We've seen the old logging cabins. There are six or seven of them right in this area." Officer Newton points at the map. "Growers and dealers love it up here—it's remote but close enough to a main road that there's electricity and other services."

  "Let's hit it." Jameson reaches for the map and folds it up.

  As I follow the squad cars back to where the dirt road cuts in, I wonder again about Kaylee. Have drugs played a part in what she's suffered? Maybe, like Annie, she's a victim of someone else's addiction. The thought saddens me, but the guilty verdict—the gavel pounding in my head—doesn't come as it usually does.

  What happens if they find her today?

  Officer Jameson told me they'd check with CWS for previous reports regarding her. But what if there isn't evidence of anything? What happens then? Maybe the jerk she lives with has a legal right to her—maybe he's her father or a guardian or something. What then?

  And if there is evidence of abuse? What had Bonnie told me? CWS would place her in a children's home or foster care.

  The thought pricks my heart. So that would be it then? Kaylee would become a ward of the county and my role in her life would be . . . what? Finished?

  The satisfaction I thought I'd feel when I'm finished with all this doesn't happen. Come on, Sierra, you've done your job. You found her, brought in the authorities. Once they find the cabin, you're free of this mess. That's what you want, right?

  The answer to the question I ask myself surprises me. No. No, that's not what I want at all.

  Confusion swirls through my soul like a tornado, upending feelings long buried—love, hope, desire. I reach for the radio, turn it on, and crank the volume.

  But my twisting soul won't still. It begs for attention.

  I reach for the radio again and turn it off. I sit in silence. Feelings fly to the surface and I try to pin them down—examine each one. But I'm unpracticed. I pay attention to the emotions stirring and finally, I recognize the most prevalent feeling: Fear.

  Fear incriminates: This child is wounded—she needs more than you can give. You don't have what it takes. You'll end up hurting her like you've hurt everyone else. I ponder the charges and then put them aside. Yes, there may be some truth there, but at the very least, I'm better than what Kaylee's had. I'd take care of her.

  Fear changes tactics: If you let yourself care for her—love her—you'll get hurt. You don't need to lose another child. You know that pain all too well. There's no happily ever after in this story. You'll end up alone again. Don't give her your heart.

  This argument traps me and there's no time to unravel the truth from the lies. The brake lights of the squad car ahead of me signal our arrival. I pull the Jeep to the side of the dirt road, take a deep breath—and get out.

  I walk to the group of officers and listen for my instructions.

  "Sierra, the first cabin in the cluster is about a hundred yards up the road. You walk in with us and point out the cabin you were in. Agreed?" Officer Newton looks at the others who nod their heads.

  "Then, Mackenzie and Jameson, you drive in and make the arrest if the guy's there. We'll hold back and wait for your instruction. We know he's armed,
so if you need backup—we're here."

  "Good. Let's take a look." Officer Mackenzie motions for me to take the lead.

  Walking the dirt road behind the cabins, I can't tell them apart. They all look the same. I don't remember cabins on either side of the place I saw last night, but maybe I just didn't notice—they are spread apart. Most of the places look vacant.

  Jameson must sense my hesitation because he slows. "Sierra, whadya think?"

  "I think it might be the last one. I was facing the cabin last night. When the truck pulled out this morning he backed out and then went around the right side of the cabin. I didn't notice another cabin on the right. I think his driveway curves around the side of the place out to the road."

  "Jameson, why don't you and Sierra cut through there"—Mackenzie points to a trail between two cabins—"and take a look from the front. Make sure we've got the right place."

  Jameson follows me down the shadowed trail. We wind our way in between trees until we're standing in front of the row of cabins. I head to the right, off the trail, and trudge through ferns and undergrowth until I see a familiar sight—a truck parked in front of the last cabin.

  "That's it. He's there. That's the truck." The fluttering in my chest feels like the beating wings of a trapped hummingbird. I take quick, short breaths, unable to find a natural rhythm. Is Kaylee there? Is she okay? What will happen? Oh, Lord, are You here? Do You have a plan?

  My pulse slows again and peace, like a sheet of assurance, drapes my soul. I don't know what comes next, but I know it's completely out of my control. This is God's plan. It's in His hands.

  Jameson clicks his radio. "Found it. We're on our way back. Looks like the guy's there."