Ripples (2 page)

I stumble out to the redwood deck, scan the horizon and sniff. The scent of something burning is faint enough it could be coming from some distance away. With no glow visible from the deck, I head down to the dock. From that vantage, I can pan a full 360 degrees. Across the narrowest part of the lake, a wisp of smoke catches the pale moonlight. Behind the stand of trees along that shore is the only other residence within miles. It’s just a shack, hardly habitable from what the surveyors told me.

A larger column of smoke would be something to worry about. No one would have a roaring fire this time of year. Likely, the girl and her family are doing some late night cooking or boiling water for a bath. I can afford propane, but apparently to them it’s a luxury they can’t. I’ve never seen the propane truck venture to their side of the lake.

I brush one hand through my hair, little of it as there is, and head to bed, yawning. As I step across the threshold, there’s that sound again. Moaning. Plaintive crying. Almost human. Probably just sounds of the night from deep in the woods. I close the door. This would be a good night to get a reprieve from the nightmare that won’t let go of me.

Tess

Bryce yanks off the blanket and collapses next to me on the bed. Beer-breath and the smell of semen mixed with sweat send a clear message—he’s in that frame of mind. Of course, I already know that from all the banging around he’s been doing up there in the loft. When he’s done with her I’m always next.

He rolls over and murmurs, “I’m all warmed up … ready for the kind of lovin’ only a real woman can give me.”

Don’t care if it’s a lie. At least he still has an appetite for me. When he
started paying attention to the girls a couple years ago, I figured my days were
numbered. It’s not like it was in the beginning. I had a tight body, perky tits, and flat belly. Not to mention, skin smooth as a baby’s ass and no crows feet. Now I have to do whatever it takes to hang onto him. Bryce isn’t the most man I’ve ever had, and he might leave a few marks on me now and then—but they’re on the outside. The others hurt me on the inside.

I was shunned by the only family I knew existed, blackballed by a vindictive former boss, scratching for my baby’s next meal. I was determined to keep the creep who got me pregnant—then dumped me—from ever being a part of my little girl’s life. Mostly though, I was bitter about having no one or no place I belonged to. Still am.

I pull him on top of me, wrap my bare legs around him, brush his scratchy cheek with my lips, lick his ear. When he starts to get hard, I roll him onto his back, sit bare-assed on his stomach, and wriggle out of my shirt.

He smiles. “I like it when you do all the work. Shows me you want it.”

I purr back, “I like what you like.”

It has nothing to do with
liking
—it’s about survival. You’d think he’s all about control—has to know what I’m doing all the time, when I’ll be back if I step out. Always has to be right, even when he’s wrong. The real problem is his fragile ego. Bruise it a little and he goes ballistic. I stay away from that crap. But when I do screw up, I stroke it the best I know how.

I throw back my head and give the performance of my life—blocking out the truth that Teresa Armato has crashed all the way from a University of Chicago degree in economics, six-figure income, and Nob Hill apartment to living off the grid in a rickety shack in the middle of nowhere. A place even its owners couldn’t care less about.

Guess I got what I deserved. A dozen years ago I picked a forty-something survivalist/conspiracy nut as my knight in shining armor. He’d never finished high school and was probably at the top of his career ladder—head grounds keeper for an estate that had all but depleted itself, doling out cash to a third generation of drug-addicted trust babies. Okay, I’ll admit it … he was pretty damn hot and so was the sex.

When he’s satisfied, he pushes me off and stares at the ceiling. “Now that’s why I keep you around.”

I pull the blanket over me. “That, and you don’t want me turning you in to the law.”

His coal black eyes are even darker. “You haven’t got the guts to turn me in. I’d hunt you down and kill you. ’Sides, they’d lock you up, too.”

I climb back on top and plant a juicy kiss on his mouth, mostly to shut him up. He’s right on the last count—being locked up doing twenty-five to life is one of my worst fears, but one day I’ll get the chance to prove him wrong about having guts—when he least expects it.

I reach for his joy stick to prime it for another round, but he pushes me off and rolls over. Within a minute he’s asleep.

Amy

S
till aching from Bryce … no sleep. The kitchen window down below lets in light. That's how I know it's morning. Grab fresh clothes … slip down the ladder. Bryce and Tess asleep. He beds her after he’s done with me. Don’t know how she can like it when he touches her. When he comes into me … wish I was dead. Why can’t he just fall off the damn ladder one of these times … break his neck?

I close the door behind me … nice and easy so it doesn’t make noise. Tiptoe through the pine trees between the shack and the water … pick up pieces of kindling along the way. The mist on the lake … so thick, hard to see through it. Have to squint to see the man’s cabin … not a single lantern lit … must be asleep. Peek over my shoulder … hold my breath ... Bryce might’ve followed me.

Good … he's not there.

Take off the sweatshirt I sleep in … slide into the dark water. Goose bumps crawl over me. I shiver. Bryce says the water’s a good place to get away from killer snakes. Says if you see one, get to the water … but don’t move too fast. Snakes give me the willies. Slithering … scaly … beady eyes. Bryce’s eyes are beady.

Try to rub off the goose bumps. Slide my hands down to my belly and stop. Swallow salty tears. Reach all the way down. Both hands churn ... like I’m scrubbing laundry on a washboard. Rub harder… faster. Fingers ache … soreness down there gets worse. Washing won't get rid of Bryce. Never does. Drop to my knees … tears roll down my cheeks … bite my lip … can’t let them hear me.

Once I stop crying I get up … wade back to shore … get dressed. But even in fresh clothes … I’m still dirty ….

On the way back, I snap off Manzanita branches ... some dead, low hanging limbs. Break ’em down … add ’em to my stack. It’ll please Bryce to see chores getting done this early. The firewood’ll hide my damp clothes … maybe he won’t notice the wet hair. If he does … there’ll be hell to pay.

I slip back inside … peek around. Bryce isn’t up yet, but Tess snaps at me. “You and me, we’re headed to town. Need to pick up some things while Bryce’s catching up on his beauty sleep. Better make it snappy. You know how he gets if we're gone too long.”

“Yes, ma’am. Will he want breakfast?”

“After all his drinking last night? Don’t bother. Just stoke the fire and set up the coffee pot. But be quick. The faster we get going, the sooner we get back.”

I shove a log and some sticks into the stove. Puff on the coals until the flames start up. Barely catch my breath before Tess growls, “Don’t take all day. I’ll be out in the pickup.”

Bryce

Damn woman. Wakes me up racing that stupid pickup engine. She makes enough noise she could raise the dead. When’s she gonna figure out how to start the thing up right. Shit. It’s only 8:20 in the goddamn morning. She and the girl better be back by 9:30. Go straight there. Do their business. Come straight home.

I roll over. Shit. Everything aches, and my gut’s doin’ flips. Last night’s dinner’s backin’ up into my throat, about to make me puke. If I can’t get back to sleep, I’ll give her what for when she gets back. Hell, now I gotta piss.

Jump outta bed and run outside to take a leak. When I’m done, I come back in and stumble over to the stove. Pour a mug of coffee. Those whores didn’t leave me any damn breakfast? Shit. What’m I gonna do with them good for nothin’ bitches?

Turn around and shut my eyes. Fuckin’ headache. Damn head’s gonna explode.

Snatch a piece of stale bread off the table, guzzle down the coffee, tromp off to bed.

Amy

Bryce says it’s less than twenty miles to town … no reason it should take more than half an hour. The road winds like a snake … both sides covered with big, bushy trees. Tess calls them live oaks. Thick branches hanging over the road. Not many cars … but sometimes you get stuck behind a semi. Tess says they low-gear it down the mountain. Hold up traffic.

Like now.

She honks. “What’s wrong with him? Thinks he owns the whole road. We just passed a frickin’ turn out.”

“He … he can’t hear—”

“Shut up. Bryce isn't going to be happy if ….”

Tess jerks the steering wheel left and presses her right foot all the way down.

God—she’s trying to pass it. Wanna scream ...
maybe he’s a murderer
.

The pickup makes a whiney sound. Tess stares straight ahead … knuckles same color as cold ashes. I peek out the back window at a cloud of white smoke.

Tess gains on the rig … a big black car barrels around the curve below … it’s headed straight at us. Can she make it around the truck? My fingers dig into the seat. She tries to make the pickup go faster. I wanna yell …
stop
. But the word gets stuck in my throat. Shove my hand in my pocket. Feel for one of my crinkly red candy wrappers. Not there.

Now, the pickup’s nose-to-nose with the rig. I stare up at the trucker. His face is twisted … big round eyes. He can’t be a murderer … they don’t get scared.

A loud clatter from the semi … wheezing … screeching. The trucker’s going slower. The black car … horn’s blaring … swerves to the side of the road … kicks up a cloud of dust.

Tess yanks the pickup hard right … cuts in front of the rig … a loud clunk. The pickup jerks … rocks … skids sideways. Tess straightens it out … back in the right lane.

I look out the rear window. The semi’s tires are smoking, its trailer’s swinging around, stretching all the way across the road, tipping. Shut my eyes … cover my ears. No … it’s not real.

Candy wrappers—wish I had one. Bright red, crinkly candy wrapper.

Jacob

I kick off the sheets and sit up. Damn. No fishing this morning. I have to go to town to restock the pantry and fridge. Someone keeps raiding them.

The first thing that went missing was a shotgun I had set out for the excavation crew—in case coyotes started hanging around. I figured one of the guys just helped himself to it.

Next there was some small scale pilfering—food from the outdoor kitchen’s mini-fridge. The outdoor kitchen went in just after they poured the cabin’s foundation. It was nice to have a place to fix hot meals for the crews. When the world knows you’re worth billions, it’s smart to throw out a few scraps, give away a little. Otherwise, some wise guy will come along and decide he’s justified in helping himself.

Once the cabin was finished, I moved the food inside. The sneaky bastard struck whenever I wasn’t around, and it wasn’t just food. A few paperbacks disappeared from my library. That’s when I ruled out the guys on the construction crew. Whoever it was, they had time on their hands to hang around and watch me.

A padlock on the fridge didn’t stop the thief. Of course, that’s not the reason for the lock; it was just a test, a kind of game. To be the best you have to beat the best. I had to find out—just how good is this bandit? So, I set out some bait—a crossbow and arrows perched on the top shelf in my office.

Got the contraption as a white elephant gift at a company party—a tasteless joke by a jerk securities trader named Conroy. I eventually canned him; the sleaze-bag couldn’t tell the difference between psychological warfare and the physical kind. Even though the gag-gift was expensive, no one dared take it from me on their turn to claim any gift they wanted. Survival rule number one—never challenge the boss. The gift I didn’t want became a trophy—a symbol of power.

Within a week of setting out the crossbow and quiver full of arrows in plain sight, the bandit relieved me of the damned things. I stepped up my game by installing deadbolts. He countered by slipping in at night—while I was asleep. I can only imagine how much bigger my war chest would be if my staff had been as bold and resourceful as this bandit.

Anyway, these trips to town have to get done early. Too many people around later in the day.

Just as I settle into the driver’s seat of the Jeep Rubicon, my cell phone rings. I glance at the screen—it's the latest private investigator I hired. One of the few calls I’ll take. Most go straight to voicemail.

“Talk to me.”

“Good morning, Mr. Chandler.”

“What’s up?”

“Now, don’t get excited. I might have a new lead. Of course, it could be a dead-end like all the others. I’m just giving you a heads-up like you’ve said.”

“Okay, but let me manage my own expectations.”

“
We turned up a report—had gotten buried in a local sheriff’s files. Apparently, around the time Celine went missing, there was a suspicious acting couple panhandling for gas money at a truck stop near Yreka—they had two little girls. One fit your granddaughter’s description.”

The photo of Celine I keep in the dashboard tray stares up at me. “She didn’t go missing. She was kidnapped.”

“Mr. Chandler, we’re doing everything we can. Hopefully, the trail isn’t so cold we won’t be able to track her down.”

“Is that all you have?”

“Oh, there is one more thing. Just got an updated sketch of what she would look like today. Should I send over a copy?”

“I’ve told you before, I don’t want to imprint some artist’s rendering on my brain. It could be all wrong. Besides, I don’t need drawings. I’ll recognize her when I see her. Anything else?”

“You’ll know what I know, when I know it.”

“Fine … and, Sam?”

“Yes?”

“Thanks.”

“No problem.”

The Jeep engine hums for several minutes as I study Celine’s picture, pinching it between my thumb and forefinger. A lump forms in my throat as I replay the day she slipped away from me. Before that happened, I’d always been the one in control, dishing out the consequences; never suffered even a twinge of pain or guilt, no matter how much it cost anybody. I slide the picture back into its place and head to town.