by Chris Page
Carrie shook her head again, uncertain if he wanted her to respond or not, but didn’t want him to squeeze her arms any tighter.
He laughed once more, bursting from his throat in a high pitch. “No, don’t worry about that. You don’t need to understand. You will, when the time comes.” He lifted his hand to her cheek and caressed it, then pinched. Carrie winced, and felt a tear spill over her cheek and soak into the dirt of his thumb. “Oh, little girl. It’s all right. You shouldn’t be scared. You should be glad. I’ve saved you, understand? I am saving you. Understand? Women are terrible things. Little girls are precious things. Understand?”
She peered into his eyes, staring at the thing she didn’t like, the thing which first appeared as fear, but now gained a title. She recognized it now, with his stale breath panting across her face, his sweaty hand wielding her shoulder, his body blocking her in. She saw evil in his eyes, plain as the trees surrounding them, the birds overhead, and the leaves beneath their feet.
“Mrs. Holloway?”
Carrie found herself behind the wheel of her car, parked with the engine running. It sat in a lot at the trailhead off the county road running behind her. She turned her head to the window, to where the voice came muffled through the window. Through it, she found a familiar face. It was a younger woman, early twenties, a beautiful girl in workout attire. She’d seen her before, running into her at the same trailhead. Carrie grew familiar with this trailhead’s common visitors as she herself became one. More than any other, Shelly Crawford regularly intersected with Carrie. It happened enough for the two of them to share a few brief conversations, usually regarding weather, or the state of the trail, whether it was dry or rained out, which this one was often known to be. They’d agreed, however, that it offered the most scenic view of the forest, featuring majestic stretches where the trees thinned out, thick trunks set far apart and fern plants covering the forest floor. Shelly didn’t know Carrie’s purpose, only knew the two of them shared a mutual appreciation for the forest, and the wonders within.
Carrie rolled down the window. “Shelly, hello!” she greeted the girl.
Shelly smiled. “Looked like you were miles away,” she replied.
Carrie offered a smile in return, thoughts of the childhood memory still lingering in the back of her mind. “Oh, not so far away.”
“Come for an afternoon walk?”
Carrie nodded. “Got to keep my legs from turning to noodles.”
Shelly laughed. “You’re not so old, you’ve got some time before you need to worry about that.”
“Sometimes it feels like I am,” Carrie replied.
Shelly lifted her eyebrows and nodded. “For us all, right? But we keep movin’!”
“We sure do,” said Carrie. “We keep movin’.” She thought of Benny, wandering through the forest, just keeping movement.
“Well,” said Shelly, stepping back from the window to stretch her leg once, “it was nice to see you!”
“You, too,” Carrie returned. “Have a nice jog, Shelly.”
“And you have a nice walk, Mrs. Holloway!” Shelly took off down the path. Carrie watched the vibrant young woman disappear among the trees. The forest fed her. It offered sustenance to the budding soul. The forest contained multitudes. Shadows, light, danger, safety.
Carrie stepped out of her car, locked it with her fob, took a deep breath, then set out on the path again, opening her heart to its feelings, seeking through them the memory of Benny’s footsteps and the reunion they led to.
4
_________
Jake sat at his desk, gritting his teeth as he spied the clock against the far wall of the room. A grid of cubicles filled the space with the desks of forty employees, the corporate positions for Trinity Mortgage, the leading provider of home loans in Willow Brook. There remained another three hours before it struck five o’clock and released him from the pleather chair he was bound to every weekday. He glared at the minute and hour hands, rigid in their positions, only the second hand dragging along the numbers. No amount of rage willed time to pick up, and seemed, counter to his intention, to slow it.
He growled under his breath as his eyes returned to his computer screen, a collection of numbers laid out in a grey window that glossed over to his disinterested gaze. He wanted to shout at the screen, to plow his fist through it, but that would only key others into his rage.
He craved a drink.
“Jake!” came a voice from behind.
He swivelled around in his chair to find the suited figure of Sean Buchanan, head of Jake’s department. Sean was a medium man in all physical respects. He rose no taller than five foot eight inches. His weight neither gained nor retracted, remaining a stable one sixty. His hair was a bland cut, brunette. He was white, with a slight tan leftover from summer, and teeth that could use whitening, but didn’t disgust. Jake presumed, to counter this utterly forgettable appearance, Sean’s demeanor sought to ingrain a gregarious persona in the minds of his subordinates. Instead of gregarious, Sean came across as excessive. One of Jake’s younger employees referred to Sean’s behavior as “extra.”
“Sean, what’s hap’nin?” This voice was not his own, but Jake humored his boss, Sean’s emphasis on business casual.
Sean slapped a hand against Jake’s back. “Livin the dream, bud. Say, you mind if we have a quick chat? Just want to go over a troubled file with you. You know, a VP in over his head, the usual.”
Jake smiled, then stood out of his chair. “You bet.”
He followed Sean back through the cubicles until they reached the corner of the room where Sean’s office cordoned off some sixty square feet with plaster walls. His windows overlooked the westside of Willow Brook from the fifth floor of the building. He could see all the way from the center of town where they worked to the cul-de-sacs out past the creek, and even down to the forest that marked the edge, where the county road disappeared into the green foliage.
The door closed behind Jake.
“Pop a squat, bud.”
Jake took a seat while Sean rounded the desk and sat down across from him. Sean lifted his arms and cupped his hands behind his head, leaning in his chair, bobbing it slightly back and forth. “What’s up?” Jake asked.
Sean sighed. “You want a beer?”
“Sure thing.”
“Good man.”
Sean curled forward and reached into the mini fridge built into his desk. He retrieved a pair of craft beers and tossed one bottle over the desk into Jake’s grip. He popped the top off his bottle then slid the bottle opener over to Jake who did the same. They swigged and Sean sighed again.
“Good brew,” Jake commented.
“Right?” Sean replied. “Great shit. Overpriced, but great shit.”
“New brewery down the road? Next to that, uh,” Jake snapped his fingers, “steak joint?”
Sean leaned forward again, planting his beer on the desk, waving a hand in the air. “No, no, that’s, uh, fuck, what’s that called? Doesn’t matter, they’re shit.” His eyes focused on a rolling bead of sweat tumbling down his bottle. “Listen. Jake. I appreciate you coming back so soon. I really do.” He lifted his eyes, donning sympathy for present company. Jake could envision his fist buried into the expression. “I hope you didn’t feel pressured, or anything.”
Jake shook his head. “Of course not.”
“Because we really like having you back, you’re killer—” he bit his bottom lip and averted his eyes, then redirected, “amazing, but we could make do if you needed more time.”
Jake nodded, taking a moment, a pause to sell his reply. “Honestly, Sean, this is the best thing for me. Getting back to work. Getting back to life, moving forward.”
Sean lifted his chin, nodding his head. “Of course,” he said.
“But I appreciate your concern.”
“Hey,” Sean said in a low tone. He bowed his head and extended his hand in a gesture that indicated he had heaps of concern for Jake, always.
“
It’s been seven months, and I’ve known for six and a half of those.”
Sean slunk his head down between his shoulders. “Jesus, Jake. I’m so sorry, bud.”
“When my wife comes around, we’ll have a service, but I buried my son a long time ago. That first month, when I didn’t sleep, didn’t eat, only searched, only followed the cops around, waiting, hoping. I did all I needed to then. I’m good, Sean.”
Sean only nodded along.
“Only thing left is the fuck who did it.”
Sean shook his head. “Fuckin cops, fuckin worthless dolts. They’ll bring in the big guns when they exhaust themselves, they’ll get the federal guys, then they’ll get this fucker, Jake. State boys aren’t worth shit. And pulling back just because another kid hasn’t gone missing? Because the headlines fade away? Bullshit.”
“Thanks, Sean.”
“You bet, bud.”
Jake stood, throwing back the rest of the beer and laying the empty on the edge of the desk before exiting. He walked back to his desk, savoring the flavor of the hops to drown out that of his boss. When he sat back down before his computer, he went to the database and entered a name. David Marko. It was a lark, but the slight buzz from pounding the heavy beer had provided the idea. He hit enter. What came up were all of David Marko’s mortgage documents. He’d done his loan through Trinity. Before Jake’s eyes were all the details of David’s financials, of his house, of his debt. He scoured them for the remaining hours, familiarizing himself with his target, finding nothing of use, yet feeling reinforced in his conviction. David Marko was his killer.
5
_________
The forest was lush in its final days of summer, still green before the plunge into the autumn spectrum. She found the air comforting, an aroma akin to the potpourri she used to keep around the house. It was chilly, but not so cold she had to zip her jacket. It was just right, and optimal for the day’s hike. She kept her mind clear, permitting the images to lay across her conscious thoughts like a soft blanket over her subconscious ones. It wasn’t until she had crossed the two mile marker that she began to turn herself over to her task.
She paused, placing a hand over the wooden post. It was weathered, the carvings denoting the distance faded, their paint only flecks in the etchings now. The space around her was less dense. The trees grew larger the deeper into the forest one ventured, their shadows darker on the forest floor. These older trees offered less sunlight, rainfall for smaller ones, bushes beneath them. The area around their trunks was clearer. One could see further into the recesses of the forest here, deeper beyond the path.
Carrie’s eyes closed and she listened. It wasn’t noise that she awaited, however, but something less obvious. It was feeling. The forest contained a deep well of emotion, most people didn’t understand this. Carrie, however, was unique. She uncovered the soul of the woods when she was young. She’d been forced to embrace its will. She was bound to it, permitting her knowledge of its intimations. When she prepared herself, when she opened herself to its vibrations, she could enter into them. She was going to use her ability to find her son.
She felt a pull away from the marker, and her eyes opened to follow the sensation. It dragged at her eastward, off the trail. She peered through the darkness cast by the canopy overhead. “There,” she whispered, as much a question as a statement. She stood still a moment longer until she felt the definite tug of the forest in the way her eyes had traced. “Alright,” she spoke solemnly, and her left foot exited the path, crunching dead shedding off the trees, leaves, twigs, as she traversed the wood.
“Do it,” the man spoke to her.
Young Carrie stood at a distance from him, standing in the clearing that would serve as her stage. She’d been dragged the previous three hours, hardly stepping at all on her own. Her arm was sore, she felt as though her shoulder would be bruised.
“Dance for me,” he urged.
She shook her head. “No,” she protested.
His face contorted into something devilish. His upper lip twitched, as though about to pull back over his teeth for a beastly snarl. “I want you to dance for me. Don’t you take ballet? All good girls go to ballet. Show me what they teach you there. Show me your beauty.”
Carrie recalled her friends’ recitals, twirling in flat fronted shoes. She imagined their toes as bloody stumps and found the entire artform hideous. She hated dancing, never more than in this moment. She began to feel sick.
The man stomped his foot against the earth.
Carrie felt the sizzle of the bile rising along her esophagus. She clenched her jaw against it. She didn’t know how the man would react to her vomiting, she feared angering him any further. She wasn’t sure how long she could hold it back.
He exhaled slowly through his flared nostrils. “I don’t want to have to get nasty, please do as I ask. Or I will make you do as I ask. Now,” he corrected his posture, straightening his spine and lifting his chin. He crossed his arms before his chest, though Carrie could see that his fingers were trembling. “Show me your beauty.”
At this point, the urge to expel the contents of her stomach, now risen nearly to her chest, was so great any movement would trigger it. She began to sweat. She felt the beads against her forehead, hot from the effort of holding back her puke. The breeze had dissipated, or was so slight she couldn’t feel it anymore. She felt panic quicken her heartbeat. She didn’t know what to do. She began to think there was nothing she could do.
In a sudden turn of mood, the man softened. He lowered his arms from his chest, and his eyes welled with something like sympathy. Though, of course, Carrie knew by now there was nothing of that in the man. Still, she hoped it signalled an escape from this moment. “What’s wrong?” he asked of her.
She couldn’t reply. If she parted her lips, if she opened her mouth, words wouldn’t be spilling out. Hot, acidic bile would eject itself from the back of her throat.
“You can tell me,” he said.
Carrie only swiped the sweat away from her forehead.
He lowered his head, his eyes disappearing beneath the shadow of his brow. “Tell me.”
Carrie had to do it. She took a final breath with her nose and hoped when she opened her mouth she would be able to speak. The air filled her lungs and she opened her mouth. It gurgled halfway up her belly and then raced the rest of the way, crossing over her tongue and bursting through her teeth as she attempted to shut her mouth against it. She curled forward and let it all out then, watching it splash against the leaves and the dirt beneath her shoes. It was just the single wave, then it was done. She straightened herself and wiped her lips with the back of her jacket sleeve.
The man’s face contorted into disgust. “That was ugly,” was all he said before grabbing hold of her shoulder and marching onward again.
Carrie’s pace quickened as she felt the forest in her chest, sensing the direction it pulled her. “Show me,” she muttered under her breath. “Show me my son.”
She imagined Benny travelling through the space, beginning to feel the same emotions Carrie was now zeroed in on. Coming into an understanding of the forest, of its soul. Though he was lost, he was held within the strongest force, channeled through him for his own redemption. He needed it to pour through him, to be baptized by the will of the trees the way Carrie had been. In a way, whenever she returned, she was the same again, that child uniting with the soul of the forest. She felt small again, she felt spry again.
“Benny!” she called out, her voice rising in pitch. Sounding younger, sounding childish. “Benny! Where are you?”
Two children, lost amongst the trees, but conducted by them, chaperoned by them. They weren’t truly alone, never when they were held within the heart of the forest, cradled by its beneficent intent.
“Benny! I’m here, where are you?” she cried out.
The trees loomed above her, they reached into the sky. She shrank beneath them, recoiled into a smaller version of herself. She was a child against their g
randeur and their intelligence. Benny was, too, and he was learning their lesson, learning to listen. She could feel it, she knew him to be out there.
“Benny!”
A vibration emanating from the phone in her pocket collapsed her concentration. Carrie stood, five feet four inches, joints sore and chest heaving, breasts uncomfortable along their undersides where the underwire dug into her flesh. Her skin felt dry across her face, felt loose and flaky.
She dug the phone out of her jacket pocket and read the name across the screen. Jackie Erickson. Her once closest friend, she’d ignored Jackie’s call now for some time. Months, if she cared to count. She groaned, which dovetailed into a coughing fit that caused her to curl forward. She stuffed the phone back into her pocket, where it finished buzzing and went quiet.
When the fit subsided, she stood straight again and peered into the forest. Then she closed her eyes and awaited once more, “Show me,” she whispered. “Show me again.”
6
_________
Jake laid into the couch alongside the wall perpendicular to the window overlooking the front yard, where his eyes continually checked until they spied what they searched for. Headlights crossed over the open blinds, flashing into his eyes a moment before passing into the garage. Carrie was home. Jake cleared his throat and resettled his body into the couch. He peered down at himself. Performance of a work-weary husband. It helped that he was actually tired. In fact, there was an exhaustion that reached down into his bones, but he refused it’s impulse, instead holding open his eyes to stare at the television screen. He’d selected some married couple sitcom that played in reruns every night. The laugh track rolled over shots of a bafoonish man scheming to withhold a misstep from his spouse.
Carrie entered the house from the garage’s entrance in the back of their home. She walked through the kitchen, tossing her keys onto the counter and placing her jacket over the back of a dining room chair before entering the living room. She found Jake where she assumed she would, sunken into the cushions of their sofa, the blare of the television casting his weary features in a light shade of blue. A beer rested on the table before him. At least it wasn’t liquor, she thought. At least he was here. He picked up his chin from his chest and turned to her in greeting.
