Feral (8 page)

If Shannon, or maybe her brother, was their killer, and the girl was Gordon's missing daughter, why had they kept her around?
 
This went back farther than Gordon's ex-wife and daughter, at least fifteen years by his estimation, maybe more.
 
With the hundreds of missing children, why had they kept Charity?

Maybe it was another girl, their latest victim.
 
Maybe it
was
a young relative or family friend.

Charles just didn't know.

G
ordon showered and changed again, throwing his soiled pants and shirt in the dumpster behind the motel.
 
He called the lobby, made a red-faced request for fresh bed linen, and was grateful when the night manager didn't comment on the bundle of urine-scented sheets he took away.
 
Gordon changed the bed himself, flipping the mattress first, and finished just before Charles came back.

“You up for a drive, old friend?”
 
Gordon didn't like the look on the PI's face or the strained quality in his voice.

“Sure,” he said, but uncertainly.
 
Suddenly he didn't want to know what Charles might have learned while he was away.
 
“What's happened?”

“We need to talk.”

T
he afternoon was eventless.
 
Shannon and Jared took turns napping on the couch while Charity sat between them, zoned out on movie matinees and commercials.

When the doorbell rang at seven o'clock Jared answered it, his gun tucked into the front of his pants and hidden by his shirttail.
 
Shannon and Charity hid in the hallway.

“Don't worry,” Charity said, giving Shannon's hand a comforting squeeze.
 
“It's not him.
 
He only comes when it's dark.”

It turned out to be the pizza delivery guy—large pepperoni, extra cheese, and an order of bread sticks.

The sun set at a quarter to nine; Charity watched it through the kitchen's sliding glass door while she ate.
 
Shannon and Jared pretended not to notice how her enthusiasm for food diminished steadily as she tracked the sun down the western sky, or how her face transformed in the sunset's violet glow, becoming a glowing mirror of their own fears for the night to come.
 
By the time full dark had arrived the fiery, bold girl they had gotten to know during the day was gone.

The half eaten slice of pizza, which had grown cold in her hand as she watched the sun vanish, dropped on the table with a splat.
 
Her hand, still in place above the overturned slice, elbow planted firmly on the tabletop, trembled.
 
She groaned, a deep resigned sound, and she seemed almost to shrink into herself.

“Lights,” Shannon said, and they jumped up in tandem.
 
Starting with the back patio outside the kitchen, they turned on every light in the house.
 
Then, while Jared dug through a box of old Disney movies once kept on hand for Alicia's infrequent visits, Shannon seated herself across from Charity and grasped the girl's shaking hands.

“Don't worry, sweetheart.
 
Remember what you said?”

“He doesn't like the light,” Charity said and squeezed her hands.
 
Then she looked into Shannon's face.
 
“It doesn't matter.
 
He'll come anyway.
 
Please take me back to the park,” she said.
 
“He can't get me there.”

“No,” she said.
 
“Feral Park is dangerous.
 
You saw what it tried to do to me.”

Charity glared at her silently, then lowered her head and nodded.

“We won't let him get you.
 
If he tries, my brother will shoot him.
 
He used to be a cop,” she said, and smiled what she hoped was her most reassuring smile.
 
“He can stop anyone.”

That didn't seem to be enough for Charity.
 
Looking into Shannon's eyes again the girl said, “Will you protect me?”

“Yes,” Shannon said without hesitation.
 
“I'll protect you.”

Charity slid from her chair, raced around the table, and wrapped her in a long, aching hug.
 
Unable to stop the tears that sprung from her eyes, Shannon hugged her back.

In the living room the movie started.
 
They held each other, listening to the Disney anthem, a safe sound, a sound that said everything was right with the world.
 
Good magic.
 
The movie was
Snow White And The Seven Dwarfs
.
 
Shannon knew how this one went.
 
Despite all their best efforts the dwarves wouldn't be able to save Snow White, the wicked witch would get her.
 
Only a prince could save the maiden, and Shannon was not a prince.
 
She had promised to protect Charity, but could she?
 
She hadn't been able to protect her own girl.

Charity watched the movie warily, as if she did not trust the animated horrors to stay behind the screen.
 
At length she relaxed though, and sitting on the couch between Shannon and Jared, she fell asleep.

Shannon carried the girl, a light bundle of clothes and hair, to her bedroom.
 
It was cluttered with dirty clothes, books, magazines, and other assorted junk.
 
It had only been three months, but without Alicia to pick up after, housekeeping had become a lost art.
 
Jared followed them.
 
He stood outside the door while Shannon tucked Charity in and switched off the reading lamp next to the bed.

Shannon left her brother to watch over Charity for a few minutes, then returned with an item for the sleeping girl, a small flashlight, flat black with a small loop at the butt end.
 
She slipped one of Charity's small hands through the loop, and when she laid it in her palm, Charity's thin fingers closed around it.

“Thank you,” she whispered, looking up at Shannon.
 
Then closed her eyes and slept again.

G
ordon and Charles had watched the house for over an hour but could make out nothing through the closed blinds.
 
All the lights were on, every light in the house it seemed, and no one came out.

“I have to see her,” Gordon said.

“You have to be cool,” Charles countered.
 
“It's probably not her and you know it.
 
Charity is the last person in the world we should expect to find in there, even if one of them is . . .”

“The killer?” Gordon finished for him.

“Yes,” Charles said.
 
“Also very unlikely.”
 
He reached down and pulled his gun from its ankle holster, opened the cylinder and checked the rounds.
 
This wasn't a good sign for Gordon.
 
It meant Charles expected he might have to use it.

Satisfied, he closed the chamber again and re-holstered it.
 
“Remember,” he said, “be cool.
 
Let me do the talking.
 
I'm the mediator here, it's one of the things you pay me for.”
 
He pulled the keys from the Cady's ignition and stuffed them deep into his pocket.
 
“If there's any trouble you just stand the hell back and let me handle it.”

He watched Gordon with an unshakable intensity, looking for signs of potential trouble.
 
It was clear he didn't intend to go any further until Gordon showed his complete understanding of the rules.

“I understand,” Gordon said.
 
“Let's go.”

“Good,” Charles said, and stepped out into the muggy darkness.
 
It was a half-block walk to the house, and as before, Charles took in everything around him.
 
He checked every window briefly for that fabled Nosy Neighbor; he was alert to every shrub and hiding place along the way; he checked behind them every few seconds for some previously unseen presence.
 
Mostly though, he watched the bright, shaded windows of Shannon and Jared's house.
 
He just couldn't shake the uneasy feeling he had that the wild card in the whole god-awful mess was about to play itself.
 
He couldn't shake the sinking feeling that everything was about to turn to shit.

Gordon followed a step behind Charles, hands shoved in his pockets and clenched into fists.
 
Being cool had never been so hard in his life.
 
He had the same uneasy feeling that Charles did.
 
Only he had a name for it, and a face.
 
Though not a superstitious man, the dream he had earlier was now very much on his mind, nagging his every step.

They turned up the walkway, and as he mounted the steps behind Charles felt a sudden rush of warm air.
 
Warmer than the muggy night air, it made the hairs on the nape of his neck stand and his balls draw up like small cowardly animals scenting danger.
 
Following that warm current, a whisper so soft he thought it must be the work of his anxious mind, or a vivid fragment of that terrible dream.

Charity
.

W
hen the doorbell rang they both jumped a little, exchanging embarrassed glances that belied the brave and prepared front they tried to maintain.
 
They waited a moment, hoping whoever it was would go away, but it rang again.

“You get it,” Jared whispered.
 
“I'll wait here.”

Shannon couldn't imagine who it might be; they were not social people, had maybe a handful of good friends between them, but no close ones.
 
She could think of no one who might have a reason to come over this late.

It couldn't possibly be Charity's Bogey Man
, Shannon thought.
 
He couldn't know where she is, and if it were him, he wouldn't knock
.

The bell rang a third time as she reached the door.
 
She stood there for a moment, suddenly wishing for a peephole.

“Yes!” she shouted, turning the dead bolt home with a loud click.
 
She saw the chain lock hanging against the doorjamb, and locked it too.

“I'm looking for Shannon Pitcher,” said a deep voice on the other side of the door.

“Speaking,” Shannon shouted back.
 
“What do you want?”

“Could you open the door and let us in?
 
We need to talk to you about your daughter.”

For the past three months the mere mention of Alicia was enough to bring tears.
 
The reason she lived with Jared was because it had become difficult to fight the suicidal impulses.
 
For all her brother's faults, and there were many, Jared had been strong enough to keep her alive through the worst time of her life.
 
She knew the bad times, the depressions and moods, weren't close to being over yet, and maybe they never would be, but she was still alive, and stronger now than three months ago.

Tonight the mention of her daughter had a new effect on her, a galvanizing effect.
 
“Fuck off!” she shouted.
 
“It's too late for this shit.”
 
Grinning smugly, bitterly, at the silence from the other side of the door, she stalked back toward the bedroom.

Where Jared stood guard over the sleeping girl, there came a scream.
 
It rang through the small house like a siren.
 
It was a wet sound, half terror and half pain.
 
Shannon froze, listening helplessly as it tapered off into a gurgling grunt.
 
Then the meaty thud of a body hitting the floor.

Jared
!

Whatever it was had happened quickly; Jared hadn't fired a single shot.

Shannon ran the last few feet to the open door of the bedroom, and found her brother sprawled out on the floor, in the corner by the bed.
 
His mouth was wide open, his eyes staring at the ceiling.
 
The gun lay beside him unused.
 
He was cut open from crotch to chin, blood slicked ropes of intestine slid slowly from his open stomach, covering his waist.

Charity sat upright in the bed, her face a mask of perfect fright, her hair tousled and dripping with sweat.
 
She stared past Shannon into the hallway.
 
Her chest rose and fell rapidly; each labored breath was followed by weak grunt, as if she were trying to scream.

Shannon ran to the edge of the bed, grabbed Charity by the shoulders and gave her a quick, rough shake.
 
“Where is he?”