Grace

by T. Greenwood

“Whoa boy, hold on,” someone said, and then Trevor saw the man in his black jacket: Police in reflective yellow across his back. Trevor moved away from the window, pressed his back against the wall. But then the voices and the snuffling sound of the dogs came closer.

  “Holy shit,” a male voice said. “Look at all this blood.”

  Trevor’s hand started to throb again, reminded of its injury. His heart rapped against his chest like a knock on a door.

  “I think we’ve got him,” another voice said.

  And then the voice was amplified. It reminded him for a moment of Mrs. Cross making the daily announcements on the loudspeaker at school. But this wasn’t school. And this wasn’t Mrs. Cross. This was a police officer with dogs and probably guns. “Trevor, we know you’re in there. You need to send Grace out.”

  Grace?

  “Trevor, send your sister out immediately, or else we’re coming in.”

  Why did they think he had Grace? His nose was running now, snot coming down both nostrils. It was hot, steaming. He rubbed his temples with his good hand; it seemed the cold had penetrated his head now and his entire brain was cold and numb.

  “I don’t have her,” he said, but his words were small, frozen slivers.

  He could hear movement outside the caboose.

  “I don’t have her!” he said, listening as the words echoed inside the metal car.

  “Come out with your hands above your head, Trevor,” the voice said.

  And Trevor did what he was told to do.

  Outside the sky had grown dark. He couldn’t tell what time of day it was. It could be dawn or dusk for this twilight sky. Everything was almost bluish. If he had his camera this is what he would have seen: two German shepherds, pulling at their leashes, eyes wild. Two men, necks strained and faces like square blocks. Guns aimed at his chest, the barrels like eyes.

  “Where’s Grace?” they asked.

  Trevor shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  And then he was down on the ground, face buried in the snow, arms yanked behind his back.

  Kurt stood alone in the empty caboose as the police handcuffed his son and read him his rights. As Elsbeth stood shivering and crying in the doorway. As the snow continued to fall.

  It was dark and cold inside the caboose. A cave. A black hole. But the light from the doorway illuminated the meager furnishings, the contents of Trevor’s clandestine asylum. Kurt recognized some items from the house: a beanbag chair, an end table, a couple of milk crates fashioned into bookcases. He looked at the walls, at the photos nailed haphazardly there. He walked closer to the pictures, his head pounding as he examined them. Most of them were old black-and-white photos, like the kind you find in antique stores. Old-fashioned photographs of children, of little girls. Sullen faces, sepia faces. Creepy nineteenth-century pictures of little girls, many of them in costume. Kurt stepped back, as if changing his perspective might help him make sense of what he was seeing. There were other pictures too, snapshots. Trevor’s own photos, he figured. There was one of Pop’s house from a distance, one of a dead fish. One of Gracy on the swing set in the backyard. Gracy. Where was she? What was he looking for here?

  He reached for something hanging from a nail on the wall. It was striped, and slippery in his fingers. Fabric? A scarf? Tights. A tiny pair of Gracy’s tights. He dropped them as he might a live snake.

  Kurt’s nerve endings were raw. His entire body felt electrified, as though he’d been struck by lightning. He stumbled backward, tripping over something on the floor.

  “Shit,” he said, catching himself before he fell.

  He looked down and saw it was only a mattress. A filthy, bare mattress on the floor. As his heart thumped in his chest, he leaned forward to see what was on the mattress. He reached down and touched the dark spot. Blood.

  His hand flew to his mouth, and he stumbled backward on his ineffectual legs, reeling as he fled the caboose. His body was so hot, the snow seemed to crack and sizzle when it hit his skin.

  Through the snarl of trees, he could see the cops escorting Trevor back toward the house. He watched Elsbeth as she struggled to keep up behind them.

  He sank to his knees in the snow, his legs failing him. His entire body failing him. It took every remaining bit of energy he had to stand up again and move toward his family, disappearing in the distance.

  Crystal didn’t know how long they had been driving. The clock in the Volvo only worked intermittently, and her cell phone battery had died. She had a car charger somewhere in her suitcase, but she didn’t want to stop again; she was worried that Gracy would wake up. She was hungry, though, and she knew that Grace would likely need to eat something soon too. She had just seen a sign announcing GAS—FOOD—LODGING and could also see a pair of golden arches in the distance. Gracy might even stay asleep if she went through the drive-thru.

  She pulled off at the exit and followed the signs that said FOOD and was happy to see that there wasn’t a line at the McDonald’s drive-thru. She glanced at Gracy in the backseat. She had shifted positions but was still fast asleep. She ordered a Happy Meal for her, trying to think whether she’d like a cheeseburger or chicken nuggets better. She got a Big Mac meal for herself, super sized; they probably wouldn’t eat again until morning.

  There was a gas station next to the McDonald’s, and she figured it was probably a good time to gas up as well. If both the car and the people inside were fueled up, they could make it out of Vermont without having to stop again. She pulled up to the first pump, checking through the window to make sure Gracy was still sleeping. She was surprised the smell of the McDonald’s food hadn’t woken her up. She had to use cash to pay, which meant she was either going to have to wake Gracy up or leave her in the car. She glanced around. The place was deserted. Gracy would be safe. It would only take a couple of minutes.

  She went inside the bright mini-mart, the electronic bells announcing her entrance, though the kid at the counter was watching TV, her arrival barely registered with him.

  “Can I put twenty dollars in pump number two?” she said to his profile.

  “You been watching this?” he asked, gesturing to the TV.

  She looked up. It was a news station, and there was some sort of fire.

  “That’s just up in Two Rivers. I got a cousin up there.”

  In the blue banner beneath the footage, it said, BOMBING AT ELEMENTARY SCHOOL. SUSPECT IN CUSTODY.

  “What happened?” she asked, feeling vertiginous, swirling.

  “A bomb went off up at some school in Two Rivers. Some crazy kid set off a whole bunch of explosions. Boom!” he said.

  Angie. Oh my God.

  The aerial shot disappeared, and a newscaster came on.“While there are no fatalities reported so far in this tragic bombing, several children are currently undergoing surgery, and several others have been airlifted to Boston Children’s Hospital.”

  She had to get home. Angie was at the school. Her entire body was shaking uncontrollably now, as though her heart were the epicenter of some horrific earthquake. She turned to go out the door, leaving the twenty-dollar bill on the counter, knowing she’d need the gas if she was going to make it all the way back to Two Rivers without stopping. But just as she was heading back out through the doors, the scene on the TV changed. The man said, “And beyond the obvious tragedy here today, there has been an alarming twist in this case. The suspect’s six-year-old sister is currently missing. It is unclear at this time whether the suspect has anything to do with her disappearance, but the school has confirmed that she was removed from the school just prior to the first explosion.”

  Crystal stood, paralyzed, staring at the screen.

  There was a photo then, a school picture of a little girl. A dark-haired girl with dark eyes. A lopsided smile and uneven bangs. Grace. Holy shit.

  Elsbeth and Kurt sat on the orange plastic chairs they’d been offered when they got to the station. Elsbeth had accepted the watery, lukewarm coffee the woman at the front desk poured fo
r her. She was the only person who’d looked either of them in the eyes in the last hour, and she was grateful. But she couldn’t drink it.

  Trevor was in the other room with the police officers who had found him out in the woods, and Kurt was on his cell phone, trying again to get through to Billy. They’d taken Trevor into custody, and Kurt had told Trevor to make sure he asked to have his lawyer present. Kurt told Elsbeth they had to honor that request. Now he just needed to get through to Billy, to get him to come home.

  “Billy, turn on the news, for Christ’s sake. We need your help. Please call me back,” he said, then clicked his phone shut. He set his coffee down, rested his elbows on his knees, and put his head in his hands.

  Elsbeth stared blankly forward at the institutional green cinder-block walls of the station.

  “Where is she?” she had asked Kurt over and over again. She asked Trevor too, the cops, but no one would answer her.

  They’d put out an Amber Alert, but she knew it was just a gesture. The cops truly believed that Trevor had done something with her. That he’d hurt her. They’d asked them to provide a photo of Gracy for the media, and she’d given them her first-grade picture. They’d just come back from the school that week and she hadn’t even cut them apart from each other. Hands shaking, she had cut one of the wallet-sized photos from the repeating pattern of Gracy’s face. She kept thinking about the other pictures of Gracy, the ones in her purse right now. The way the light had touched her hair. The soft glow of her bare shoulders. Her tiny hands. She felt the sorrow filling her, like water in a tub. It started at her feet as they came back to life after standing outside in the cold for so long, and then it traveled up her legs, spread across her hips, and finally up into her throat. She thought she might choke on it. That it might suffocate her.

  Kurt’s phone rang and he grabbed it quickly out of his pocket. “Billy?” He nodded and nodded, silently, listening to whatever it was that Billy was saying on the other end of the line. “Thank you,” he said. “God, thank you. Call when your flight gets into Manchester.” He looked at Elsbeth, his eyes filled with tears. “He’s at the airport. The next flight out is in an hour. He’ll be here by seven or eight.”

  Elsbeth reached for his hand, that familiar hand, the one she’d held since she was just a girl. The one that had cupped her face to kiss her. The one that had stroked her back as she labored with Trevor. The one that had cradled Trevor when she was bone tired, the one that had stroked Gracy’s hair. His palms were rough, callused from years and years of work at the yard. Chapped by too many winters spent working outside. She let it enclose her own hand, watched as the knuckles bent and fingers curled around hers. Studied the veins and tendons. Examined the blood that coursed blue beneath that battered skin. She looked at him, but he wouldn’t look at her. Wouldn’t meet her glance.

  “Kurt,” she said, his name like a marble lodged in her throat.

  He looked at her then, startled, as if he didn’t recognize her at all.

  “Baby?” she asked.

  But then his hand let go, and her own hand felt exposed. Alone on her lap. She felt the liquid sorrow rising up her throat, filling her mouth and cheeks and eyes and head. She was drowning, and no one was there to save her.

  Kurt didn’t want to leave the station, but the rental agency at the airport was out of four-wheel drive vehicles, and the roads were bad. It was just a forty-five-minute drive to the airport. He could be back with Billy by eight thirty, even if they had to go slow.

  He hadn’t seen Billy since he left. Not once in all these years. He wasn’t sure if he’d even be able to recognize him anymore; he was just a kid when he took off. Now Billy was a grown man. A thirty-year-old man. Kurt was trembling as he pulled up to the curb next to where Billy had said he’d be waiting.

  But there he was, as though he hadn’t aged a day. A thinner, more gentle version of Kurt himself. The same blond hair, wide shoulders, blue eyes. A better haircut, though, a nicer coat, not so many years in the lines of his face. He shielded his eyes from the glare of Kurt’s headlights and smiled when he recognized him inside the cab.

  Billy threw his suitcase into the bed of the truck and opened the passenger door. He climbed into the cab and blew into his hands. “Wow, it is fucking cold out there.”

  “Hey,” Kurt said, feeling a thousand different things at once, some of them good, but most of them awful.

  “Hey,” Billy said and put one of his gloved hands on Kurt’s shoulder. “I’m here, buddy. Everything’s going to be okay.”

  They drove quietly back to Two Rivers, Kurt peering intently at the road, grateful for his need to focus on the icy pavement as an excuse for their silence.

  Billy asked only basic questions, and Kurt answered them the best he could. When did you last see Trevor? Gracy? Do you know anyone who would want to harm Gracy? Did Trevor admit to anything? Has he been acting strangely lately? Did you make sure to demand your lawyer be present? He answered the questions, but he couldn’t bring himself to tell Billy about what he’d seen in the caboose. He was afraid that if he did, then Billy would have the only answer he needed.

  As they pulled into the dirt parking lot at the police station, Billy took a deep breath and asked the one question Kurt couldn’t answer: “Do you think Trevor did what they say he did?”

  Kurt sighed and looked into Billy’s face, his own face, a stranger’s face, his brother’s face. “I don’t know a goddamn thing anymore.”

  Crystal was trying not to drive too fast; she knew that if she wasn’t careful, she could get them in an accident, and that was the last thing she needed. The car still smelled like greasy fries and burgers. Gracy had woken up and devoured her cheeseburger and fries and chocolate milk and was playing with the Strawberry Shortcake doll that had come inside the Happy Meal. “When are we going home?” she asked.

  “Right now,” Crystal had said, forcing the words past the frozen block of ice in her throat.

  “Good. Because it’s past my bedtime,” she said, and this made Crystal smile.

  She still hadn’t figured out what to do about Gracy. She knew she couldn’t just drop her off at her house. With everything that was happening, she was pretty sure no one would be there. She also couldn’t take her to her own house. She thought about taking her to the police station, saying that she’d found her somewhere, but she was also fairly certain that Gracy would blow that story. She needed to get to Angie, but she wasn’t even sure where Angie was. She looked at her dead phone. Angie might be in Burlington or Hanover. She could be in Boston for all Crystal knew. No fatalities. She clung to the newscaster’s words. No one had died in the blast. She was still alive.

  She pulled off the interstate at the Two Rivers exit, and she realized what she needed to do. The clock at the bank across from the Walgreens said 11:04 P.M. The Walgreens was the only place besides the 76 station in town that was open all night. It was Monday. Howard would be there until midnight. She pulled into the parking lot.

  “Why are we at the Walgreens?” Gracy asked sleepily in the backseat.

  “Your mommy will come get you here, okay? And my friend, Howard, is going to take care of you, okay?”

  Gracy shrugged. “Can I get a Butterfinger?”

  “You can get anything you want.”

  Gracy unbuckled her seat belt, and Crystal picked her up without needing to be reminded and carried her into the store. The lights were so bright, they almost burned her eyes. Gracy blinked against the glare as well. They were like newborns just coming into the bright world.

  She set Gracy down and took her hand, leading her to the photo department, where she searched through the envelopes looking for one of her mother’s packets of photos. Luckily, the ones that Crystal hadn’t stolen were still there, with Mrs. Kennedy’s cell number right on the front. She scratched the number down on a piece of tape she pulled from the roll on the register.

  “Howard?” she said.

  Howard, like a dog, came wagging his tail over to
her.

  “I need you to keep an eye on my friend, Gracy. Her mother will be here to pick her up soon. And if anybody asks, you didn’t see who dropped her off. Do you understand?”

  Howard looked terrified, but he blinked hard and nodded. “Of course,” he said. If she asked him to rob a goddamned bank, he probably would.

  “Miss Grace,” she said, kneeling down next to Gracy, who had already torn into a Butterfinger, “your mommy will be here soon, okay?”

  She thought about telling her not to say anything about who had taken her, but she knew there was no way that would work. She could imagine it already, “That girl at Walgreens picked me up at school and took me for a long, long drive. We went to McDonald’s too.”

  She had bigger things to worry about now, though. She’d returned Gracy. Hopefully her mother would just be so grateful to have her back, she wouldn’t say anything. Do anything. She thought then about what it meant to be sending her home. With a brother who set a bomb off at his school. Her only hope was that she’d get removed from the house after this, placed with a foster family. Adopted even, by someone who really could take care of her.

  Crystal’s mind was reeling as she left Grace there and got back into her car. She dug through the suitcase in the back of the station wagon and found the phone charger. She got in the driver’s side and plugged it in. Her hands were trembling as she dialed the number she’d scratched on the slip of paper.

  “Mrs. Kennedy. I just wanted to let you know your daughter is here at the Walgreens. She’s fine. She’s waiting for you.”

  She clicked the phone shut, and then dialed her voice mail, listened to her mother’s thousand tearful pleas for her to please come home.

  Kurt and Billy had sent Elsbeth home. “In case Gracy comes back,” they said. “You’ll want to be there if she comes home, right?” Though Kurt knew Gracy wouldn’t just walk through the front door. Though he had seen the blood himself, like bright cherry Kool-Aid on the snow.

  Billy disappeared inside the interrogation room with Trevor, and Kurt paced. His legs wouldn’t let him sit, not even for a moment. He walked back and forth, back and forth until the woman at the front desk who had initially seemed kind started to glare at him.