Before She Was Found

by Heather Gudenkauf

  Thomas drives up and down the quiet streets of Pitch to center himself. Most homes are still steeped in darkness with lights off and shades drawn. He could put a name to just about each and every house he passed, and if he couldn’t remember names he remembered drinks.

  Simon Gaspar lives there in the green house with the white shutters. He is partial to gin and tonics with a twist of lime. The Porters live across the street in the gray house with the bay window. Roy Porter likes rum and Coke while his wife always orders a Long Island iced tea. The woman in the yellow house at the end of the block asks for something called a Fallen Angel, a concoction made with gin, white crème de menthe, lemons, bitters and a cherry on top.

  Thomas finds himself on Hickory, a street whose inhabitants tend to like their booze cheap and hard. He rolls past the Crow home and for the life of him he can’t associate any sort of liquor with Beth. In fact, he’s not even certain that Beth has stepped foot in the bar. Not much of a drinker, Thomas thinks. Or just not a barfly. Thomas remembers Jordyn saying something about how Violet’s mom worked all the time. He imagines it’s not easy being a single parent and can’t fathom raising his boys on his own.

  He wants to be angry with Beth and wants to hate Violet, but finds he can’t. Violet has always seemed like a nice girl, has always seemed to bring out a softer side of Jordyn. He didn’t know much about that boy Gabe.

  The sun is just beginning to rise, turning the eastern sky moscato pink and triple sec gold while the west remains blanketed in what’s left of the night. Thomas heads back west, passing by a whiskey sour, a Tom Collins and a planter’s punch. He turns onto Apple Street and drives slowly past the teacher’s house. John Dover. Cold Press Black Ale served in a frosted mug.

  That damnable assignment seems to be the catalyst for this whole rotten mess. What kind of teacher tells his students to research ghosts and murderers and the like? When he was a kid, they were required to research Civil War battles and famous explorers. He spent many unsuccessful hours memorizing poems and important historical dates. Nowadays, kids could just look that all up on their phones. Ridiculous.

  A bubble of resentment rises in his throat as he circles around the block and comes to a stop in front of the Dover house. If Mr. Dover hadn’t given the assignment and hadn’t teamed the three girls together this would have never happened. Here, he’s sleeping soundly in his own bed while his granddaughter is locked away. It’s not right. A shift in shadows at the front window catches his eye. So maybe John Dover isn’t resting so peacefully right now. Good, Thomas thinks. Serves him right.

  Thomas takes a left back onto Main and another left onto Juneberry, a street filled with four-bedroom homes and large backyards. The people who live on Juneberry tend to veer toward the more expensive beers. Guinness, IPAs, microbrew and craft beers. They are also the worst tippers.

  Thomas parks across the street from the Landry home. A carbon copy of its neighbors, the house is set well away from the road and, while there is no sidewalk, the driveway is large and circular, giving the children plenty of room to ride bikes and play without fear of being struck by a car. Jim and Mara Landry come into the bar every month or so. Mara is a wine drinker—pinot grigio—and Jim a Sam Adams guy. They sit at a corner table, sipping their drinks, deep in conversation and enjoying one another’s company.

  Thomas remembers thinking that it was nice to see a couple actually talking to each other and not staring down at their drinks or phones or looking up at the television screen mounted on the wall. A light pops on from within the Landry home and, framed by the large picture window, someone steps into view. Jim Landry.

  Instinctively, Thomas slumps down in his seat but it’s too late—he’s been seen. Jim Landry’s spine straightens as if suddenly alert and he cups his hands and presses his face against the pane of glass to get a better look. Thomas does not want a confrontation. He’s witnessed one too many bar fights that could have been avoided by one less drink or by making a judicious exit a few minutes sooner.

  The front door opens and Landry barrels down the steps, a baseball bat in his hand. Before Thomas can put the truck into gear and drive away, Jim Landry is wrenching the car door open. “Stay the hell away from my family,” Landry says, his voice low and dangerous. “I swear to God I will bash your head in if you come near us again.”

  Heart pounding, Thomas manages to yank the door shut. Juneberry ends in a cul-de-sac so it’s all he can do not to throw the truck into Reverse and speed backward out of the subdivision. Instead he pulls from the curb and frantically speeds down to the circular dead end and back down the street past Jim Landry, who glowers at him from the lawn.

  It was stupid, Thomas thinks, to come here. Doing so in no way helps Jordyn, only makes them all appear more sinister. He drives aimlessly around until his heart rate steadies, and finds himself approaching the train yard. It makes no sense for him to go there, either. What does he expect to find?

  Despite his reservations, Thomas pulls next to the old depot, a shell of a building with boarded-up windows and doors, and situates the truck for a quick getaway, headlights facing the exit. He opens the door and is met with the chilly morning air that is unique to April. Stinging and brisk but with the promise of warmer hours ahead. The depot is surrounded by broken concrete cushioned only by the overgrowth of weeds that over the years have sprouted, untamed, through the crumbling slabs.

  There’s no crime scene tape, no police presence at all, no townspeople or press with a ghoulish curiosity. Only him. Thomas carefully steps from the truck well aware that he is one misstep away from a broken ankle or worse. He thinks he hears the gravel pop and looks around to see if another vehicle is approaching but none appears. He’s jumpy, paranoid. Being silly, he tells himself.

  He hasn’t been here in years. Not since he was a child and he went with his parents on a cross-country train ride to visit relatives in Pennsylvania. The depot closed soon after and the rails were then used exclusively for cargo transport. Over the years there has been talk of renovating the depot into a restaurant or a museum or something of the like, but unsurprising, it’s never come to pass. Pitch, for some reason, tends to rail against any kind of progress before it even begins.

  A cold breeze brushes against his neck, the sound of metal on metal clatters and Thomas turns to see the red eyes of an opossum lumbering across the train yard. He checks his watch. Another cargo train will come through in the next twenty minutes or so. Four times a day they hear the telltale whistle, more of a lonely foghorn, really, that lets the good people of Pitch know that boxcars and storage containers filled with ethanol, fertilizers, grain, stone, sand and gravel are passing through.

  Thomas scans the train yard, the abandoned boxcars, the acres of waving grass and the tracks that go on for a thousand miles in either direction. Wearily, he realizes the futility of this treasure hunt. How is a man of near seventy, with failing eyesight and unstable joints and an unreliable heart, going to be able to find anything helpful to the investigation?

  But since he’s already here, it won’t hurt to look. He sighs and, holding on to the truck for support, he picks his way through the broken concrete until he’s on even ground. Three discarded boxcars on concrete blocks sit in a rusty row and Thomas recognizes the car with Soo Line printed across the panels. This was the backdrop for the picture where the three girls were mugging for the photo that showed Jordyn holding the knife. So Jordyn came at least this far into the train yard, Thomas thinks, but still well away from the portion of the tracks where the attack was reported as taking place.

  Thomas slowly moves forward, eyes pinned to the earth in front of him. There are coins and pop tabs, an earring, but nothing of real interest.

  Thomas approaches the tracks and comes upon a large rust-colored stain in the gravel. Blood, he thinks. This must be the spot. He imagines pint-size Cora Landry cowering, hands above her head warding off blows from the hand wielding the k
nife. His stomach roils.

  No. There is absolutely no way that Jordyn could have done it. None. He can see where the tall grass has been trampled down in one spot. Had the girls gone through the field or was it the real attacker? Hidden behind the thousands of slim stalks, a perfect hiding place in the dark for someone to spy on three young girls. Two, Thomas amends. Jordyn said she wasn’t here. A child nearly died here, Thomas realizes fully, perhaps for the first time since this all began. It makes him feel dirty, complicit, being here.

  And if he really thinks about it, he has been. He hid Jordyn’s backpack—her clothing, her shoes—up inside a chimney flue. Had Thomas, in trying to protect Jordyn, made things worse? Made her appear guilty? He needs to get home and pull the backpack from the chimney and take it to the police. They will be able to run tests, examine the contents and prove that Jordyn is innocent. He needs to go home; he needs to make this right.

  The sun is just beginning to rise and morning moisture clings to the winter wheat. Thomas reaches into his pocket to retrieve his keys and a small wad of bills comes out with them. The money drifts to the ground and as Thomas bends down they are whisked away by a stiff breeze. Thomas follows the bills into the tall grass and bends over to grab one that has come to rest among the stems.

  A metallic glint catches his eye and he bends over and pushes the grass aside to find a small book embossed with the word Journal in silver glitter. Thomas picks up the book; it is wet to the touch and smeared with dirt.

  He flips through the pages and finds them filled with girlish script but the sun isn’t bright enough for him to read what’s been written. He digs in his pocket for his phone; the light from the screen illuminates a page. He reads quickly as if the words might disappear before his eyes. He feels sick, dirty, as he begins to comprehend the story unfolding in the pages.

  A whistle blows in the distance, the train marking its arrival to the crossing west of town where the long white arms come down, stalling traffic for a good ten minutes. Thomas, resolving to put an end to this entire mess, slides the book into his coat pocket, turns and strikes solid flesh. His first thought is Jim Landry has come here to confront him. He knows he is no match for an angry man, a father no less, who is thirty years younger, stronger and bearing a grudge.

  Instead finds himself face-to-face with John Dover. The teacher. “What are you doing here?” Thomas asks. The gruffness of his voice masks the pounding of his heart.

  “I could ask you the same thing,” Dover says, the hood of his coat pulled up over his head and his hands tucked into the pockets to ward off the cold. “I saw you sitting outside my house.” In the distance the train calls out again, a rusty foghorn. “Why?”

  “Just out for a drive and getting some exercise,” Thomas says, taking a few steps to the right, uncomfortably aware of the bloodstained gravel at their feet. Couldn’t someone have rinsed it away?

  “But why stop in front of my house?” Dover asks. “What possible reason would you have for doing that? Is there, maybe, something you want to ask me?”

  Thomas examines Dover’s face carefully. Through the dimness he sees no anger, no hostility, but there is concern, possibly fear. Why would John Dover be frightened of him? “I’ve got nothing to say to you,” Thomas says and starts moving along the tracks, eager to get as far away from the rusty patch of earth and away from John Dover.

  But Dover isn’t going anywhere and joins Thomas. Together they walk silently along the tracks, a cold breeze pushing them along. Thomas eyes the ground in front of him, still searching for the key.

  “What she’s saying isn’t true,” Dover says.

  “I have no idea what you are talking about,” Thomas says but his pulse quickens. He casts a wary glance toward Dover.

  “The police brought me in for questioning again last night. They took my computers and my phone. I know what Jordyn is saying about me. It isn’t true.” Dover is walking so closely to Thomas that their shoulders graze. “I wasn’t anywhere near here the other night.”

  It comes to Thomas then what Dover is talking about. Jordyn must have told the police something about Mr. Dover and the attack. This is what the attorney meant when he said Jordyn was ready to talk. Was John Dover the one who attacked Cora Landry? He thinks of the journal hidden in his coat pocket. In his quick perusal, he had seen Dover’s name dozens of times.

  Thomas’s skin begins to vibrate with anger. Had Dover lured his granddaughter and the other girls to the train yard? After what happened to Cora, Jordyn must have been terrified that Mr. Dover was going to come after her, too.

  “Did you hear me?” Dover says loudly, snagging Thomas’s jacket in one hand. “Jordyn is going to ruin my life. You have to make her tell the truth.”

  “Let go of my coat,” Thomas orders, trying to keep his voice steady, even. Dover curls the fabric even more tightly between his fingers.

  “She’s lying,” Dover hisses. He’s near tears.

  “My granddaughter doesn’t lie,” Thomas says, though this isn’t quite true. Hadn’t Jordyn lied about sneaking out, about the alcohol, about pushing Cora down, about seeing anyone at the depot?

  Far down the tracks the six-thirty train comes into view. Right on time.

  The earth shivers beneath Thomas’s feet and the clickity-clack of the approaching train crescendos and Thomas has to raise his voice. “You’re wrong about Jordyn. She’s a good girl.”

  “A good girl?” Dover cries, his face so close that Thomas can smell the Cold Press Ale on his breath. “I’ve watched your granddaughter bully and tease Cora Landry all year long and for some reason she’s accusing me of stabbing a twelve-year-old girl! I’m a teacher, for God’s sake.”

  The headlight from the oncoming engine floods the train yard and Dover’s face is distorted with disbelief, rage. “Jordyn was only pretending to be Cora’s friend. Now she’s trying to blame me.

  “What did I ever do to her?” Dover steps toward him with each word, forcing Thomas backward until his heels bump against the iron rails. Thomas cries out, his left knee buckling. Sent off balance on the loose gravel he falls and lands on his back perpendicular across the tracks. The men lock eyes, both registering first shock then fear as the train inches closer. Thomas reaches for Dover’s hand, the slick fabric of his down coat slipping through his fingers as he tumbles and falls backward onto the tracks.

  His spine strikes the metal rails and the breath is knocked from his lungs, momentarily stunning him. He struggles to sit up but his coat is snagged on a rusty railroad spike. He looks to Jordyn’s teacher for help and for a minute Thomas is afraid that John Dover will simply allow him to be crushed by the train. Afraid that he will just walk away. Suddenly Dover steps into view and is standing over him, his mouth open in a twisted scream.

  “Get up!” Dover shouts, his voice drowned out by the screech of the train. “Get up!” Dover reaches down and grabs onto Thomas’s legs and tries to pull him from the tracks but his coat is hopelessly ensnared. “Please.” Dover furtively glances to the right and at the coming engine. “Please get up!” He stands upright and waves his hands over his head, trying to get the conductor’s attention. It doesn’t slow but continues its steady progress toward them.

  Again, Thomas tries to right himself but he is pinned to the tracks like an insect mounted on a specimen card. Dover steps over the tracks and bends over to wrestle with the zipper on Thomas’s coat. His fingers are stiff from the cold and the zipper doesn’t budge. “Please, God, please,” Dover breathes as he tries to unthread Thomas’s arms from the coat and pull it over his head.

  The world goes black and he feels like his arms are being torn from his body. A deafening roar thunders through his ears. Thomas thought that he’d be terrified. That death would be just about the hardest thing he’d face. But now he knows it’s not the hardest. Losing Betsy, being separated from Tess, what’s happening to Jordyn are all the hardest. The h
ardest in different ways. He can’t leave them, not when they need him the most.

  But dying doesn’t sound so bad, he thinks, and not so scary. Maybe Donny would come home. Maybe even Randy would come home to take care of Jordyn and Tess, take over the bar. He’d like to have seen that. Thomas is tired, so very weary. He feels Dover give him one final yank as the train brays its arrival, low and insistent, filling Thomas’s ears with its somehow soothing, dizzying wails.

  Case #92-10945

  Excerpt from the journal of Cora E. Landry

  Apr. 15, 2018

  I tried to cancel the overnight. I don’t want to do this. I tried everything. I told my mom I was sick. But she told me that I’d used that excuse one too many times. She said that it was good that I was spending time in the land of the living again. If she only knew.

  Violet and Jordyn will be here in a little bit. It makes me sick that I’m going to have to spend the next few hours with them and I can’t believe that the first time I see Joseph they are going to be there, too. I’m nervous. Scared.

  What if he doesn’t show up? What if he does? What if he does and he doesn’t pick me?

  Beth Crow

  Thursday, April 19, 2018

  Max and I spent another night sleeping in the family waiting area but we were both so tired at the time we could have slept standing up. Once Dr. Gideon discharges Violet we can all go home.

  On the couch next to me Max is scrolling through his cell phone while I mentally try to balance my nearly nonexistent checking account. “Mom.” Max turns to me. His eyes are wide and his face is a sickly shade of white.

  “What?” I ask and he holds out his phone to me. I take it and look at the screen to find a series of text messages from a group of kids. Only Nikki’s and Clint’s names are familiar.

  “Oh, my God,” I whisper and thrust the phone back into Max’s hands.

  “What’s happening?” Max asks me, sounding like a small boy.