Ripples (8 page)

Baker folds his arms across his chest. “Or, maybe he has their permission ….”

Carl looks down.

“So tell me about this late night visit to your neighbor. Why’d you go over there in the first place?”

“My bladder woke me up—on the way to the john I spotted the girl crouched next to my Jeep. She’s probably the one who’s been breaking in, stealing stuff.”

“Someone’s been breaking in?”

“Ever since I moved in. Actually, before that—while my place was going up.”

“You ever report this?”

I look away. “No. It was nothing to get worked up about.”

“But now you’re saying it is a big deal. That you went traipsing through the woods to your neighbor’s place in the middle of the night. Smashed his window with a flashlight. He says you threatened him.”

“I didn’t threaten him. I told him I wasn’t going to stand for him abusing that girl.”

“Mr. Chandler, as I’ve said, there’s no sign of any girl. And your story has some holes in it. At least your neighbor’s version makes sense.”

I step toward the deputy. “A girl’s life could be at stake.”

Carl cuts between us and clutches my arm. “Deputy, my friend here has been through hell the past few years. Let’s just step back and see if I can’t get him some help. In the meantime, I’ll keep him in tow.”

“See that you do. And for the record Mr. Chandler, it wouldn’t matter if you played golf with God. You’re not moving into my county, throwing your weight around. Next time you haul me up here without solid evidence of a crime, I’ll stick you with felony filing a false police report. For the last time, there’s no girl.”

Carl hands the deputy his business card. “Good day, deputy. Maybe if you give me a call, I can help clear up some things.” As the sheriff heads back to his car, Carl nudges me toward the French doors to kitchen.

I stop in the doorway and spin around, meeting Carl eye-to-eye. “Me, harassing that bastard? That’s a crock. If this sheriff doesn’t do his job, I’m gonna ….”

“Just get a hold of yourself before you ….”

“What? Do something
stupid
?”

RJ

Mercedes’ hideout is a couple miles from Uncle Eric’s ranch, tucked back in the trees at the bottom of the ridge. The hut overlooks a clearing about half the size of a soccer field. Beyond the clearing it’s chaparral and another large meadow. Of course, Mercedes hates the word “hideout.” She calls it home. Been on her own for more than two years. The old bastard she escaped from has probably given her up for dead.

I slide off the stallion and unsaddle him at the usual spot in the woods, a quarter-mile from her place, half-way up the ridge. I slap his hindquarter to send him on—that’s her heads up I’m coming. When she sees him, the plan is she’ll sneak up near the top of the ridge and perch in a cluster of live oak to watch and see if anybody’s following me. After she caws like a crow I drop down and go inside where I sit and wait.

Inside, the place smells like rotting wood. I pick up a book from a box in the corner. Today, it’s by some dude named Stephen King. Already been through all the hunting magazines and issues of
Guns and Ammo
. No idea where she gets this stuff.

It’s taking a long time for her to come down off the ridge. The wait gives me butterflies. I put down the book and start fiddling with the pocket knife Uncle Eric gave me. Even taught me how to keep it sharp. Tote it around in my back pocket. It has a bunch of cool gadgets —one’s a church key. He says a guy should always carry a church key —never know when you’ll come across a bottle of beer that’s screaming to be opened—or a can of beans. I know Uncle Eric isn’t the greatest role model, but if you never knew your old man, and your mom pretty much abandoned you …. Maybe that’s why my face burns when I lie to him about this place. Told him an old coot lives here. Mercedes swore me to secrecy.

Finally she sees fit to join me, and the gutted rabbit she’s carrying by the ears explains what kept her—dinner. She drops the critter in a bucket she uses for cleaning up, and hangs the crossbow and quiver on a nail in a wall stud. No wall board or insulation—just plywood siding outside, nailed to studs. The place gets bitter cold in winter, but she finds ways to manage.

She offers me something to eat—most of her stuff, she scavenges from a fancy cabin a few miles away.

I put away the knife and pick up the King book.

She sits cross-legged next to me on the plywood floor—it’s rotting through in a few places. With her dark curls hanging down over one eye, she’s kinda sexy. Sometimes I wish I could let myself ….

“Missed you,” she says, glancing at me sideways.

“He’s had me doing chores, round the clock. No time off for good behavior. Anyway, I need your help.”

She snatches the book out of my hand. Her eyes turn almost black. “Yeah, and I could use some help around here fixing the place up.”

“Things seem fine to me. What are you talking about?”

“Like, there’s a leak in the roof.” Mercedes points overhead with the book.

Dust floats in a streak of light coming through a crack. “Okay, okay. I’ll fix it. But since when are you so helpless?”

She hugs the book. “Since you’ve been so scarce.” She lays her hand on my knee. Her fingers are slender, but strong.

I pull away. Not gonna let her go there. Seen enough of how my old lady treats guys.
Use ’em ’n lose ’em
—that’s her motto.

“So what kind of help do you need?”

“A woman showed up at the ranch house last night with a girl about our age.”

“I don’t give boy-girl advice.” She turns away.

“Whoa, don’t jump to conclusions.”

She gives me the kind of look Xena—Warrior Princess has when she draws her sword on a band of evil dudes.

“Say, what’s the name of that old bag you lived with?” I reach for the book.

She hides the book behind her back. “Tess. Why?”

“Didn’t you say something about another girl?”

“Yeah, about a year or two younger than me. Didn’t have a chance to tell her I was running away. She was back at the shack, I was at your uncle’s ranch. Besides, I wasn’t even sure I could fend for myself out here.”

“It’s them.”

She scrunches up her nose. “Who’s
them
?”

“The woman who showed up last night. Name’s Tess. And she brought a girl—keeps her chained up in the barn.”

“That sadistic bitch.” Mercedes grabs both my hands. “Do you know the girl’s name?”

“Amy.”

She springs to her knees. “Damn. That’s her.”

“We’ve gotta help her.”

“Was there a man with them?”

“No. My uncle’s doing the old bitch. She was wearing his shirt this morning, and I don’t think she had on anything else." My cheeks burn. I used to hear my mom humping a different guy practically every night I lived with her.

Mercedes stands and sidles up to me with a frisky smile. “You’re putting thoughts in my head talking about that stuff.” She cups the back of my head and kisses me.

I jerk away. “I’d better get back. My uncle will kill me if I’m gone too long.”

“Yeah. Whatever. It’s always about you.”

“No way. I came to get your help rescuing that girl.”

“What, so you can get into her pants?”

“Jeez, not everything’s about sex.”

“Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it.”

“I swear—I—”

“You swear what? You only think about me? Is that what you wanna say? Hmph.”

“No girl’s going to make a fool out of me. I’ve seen enough of that shit.”

Mercedes grabs my face and kisses me again. Her mouth half open.

I push back. “Why do you always have to make things so complicated?”

Mercedes turns away. “So, what is it you wanna do … exactly?”

“I was thinking we could help her escape sometime when Uncle Eric and the bitch are screwing.”

“You said we?”

“I could keep lookout in the house while you sneak into the barn and get her out of those chains.”

She twists a loose curl hanging beside her cheek. “Wouldn’t be hard. But what’ll we do with her once she’s free? It’s not like she could make it on her own. That’s why I didn’t go back for her. She would’ve been dead weight.”

“She could stay here ….”

Mercedes rolls her eyes.

“Just for a couple days—‘til I get her into town. Maybe someone could help her find her folks.”

“But when Tess finds she’s gone, she’s gonna come hunting for her. No way I want people snooping around here. They’d spoil everything.”

“Okay. I’ll make it look like she took off on the mare and headed down to town. I can ride the old nag along the dirt shoulder for a ways. Leave tracks.”

“Guess it’s the least I can do—after leaving her behind.”

“Yeah. We better do it tonight. Tess said something about her old man coming to get them in a few days—after the coast is clear.”

“Just as soon get it over with. Never planned on going back there. Not after ....” The pain in her eyes reminds me of the stories she tells about being a prisoner at Uncle Eric's place. Still can't believe that's true. Uncle Eric wouldn’t do stuff like that. Just the same, I say, “I understand."

"It's tonight, then."

“Great. My room is next to Uncle Eric’s. I’ll signal you with my flashlight when I hear them getting it on. Then you can sneak down to the barn.”

“That'll work ... as long as Bryce doesn't show up. He can get nasty … and violent. He’d kill them both if he caught ’em at it.”

“That Tess woman is pretty nuts, too.”

“Only because Bryce bullies her. And she’s got a thing against Amy for some reason.”

“Don’t know. The girl seems pretty nice. She’s really afraid of the old witch.”

"This sure as the hell better not be about springing her just so the two of you can hook up. I'm not about to start being anybody’s damned matchmaker."

"I told you ...."

“I heard what you said."

I watch her walk over to a box in the corner and pull out a pair of black shoes, black pants and black hoodie. "So we’re on for tonight, right?” I ask.

"Yeah, I've got stuff to do.”

"See you tonight, then."

“Sure, tonight." Mercedes looks at me, her eyes misty. "Must’ve been a lot worse for her after I split.”

Mercedes

After RJ leaves, I dig out my lock picking tools and practice on several different types of padlocks. Bryce taught me how to use them before I was ten. He made me help him rob folks in town. He’d sit in the pickup until I signaled the coast was clear. That way, he could take off if I got caught. He claimed the cops would go easy on a 10-year-old girl. I wonder if Amy inherited the job once I bailed.

Jacob

I
t’s been dark for an hour and a half. Longer, if you count from when the first stars were visible on the horizon. I walk over to the fridge—for the twelfth time—open it, and stare at the six bottles of Irish Death. A pint has as much alcohol as a double shot of eighty proof whiskey.

Robert Dugoni’s legal thrillers always keep me glued to the page, but tonight, not even his latest bestseller holds my attention. Not his fault I can’t concentrate. I find myself out on the deck staring across the lake, waiting for that sound. Can’t shake the image of that girl cowering under the bastard’s belt.

I storm into the cabin for my Beretta twelve-gauge, but it’s not by the nightstand where I keep it. I retrace my steps for the past few hours, but there are too many holes in my memory. Then it hits me—must have left it in the underground bunker when I checked the expiration dates on medical supplies earlier in the day. Back in my office, I activate the hidden doorways into the bunker. After turning on the lights, I stand at the top of a half-flight of stairs and scan the ‘safe room’—a row of file cabinets near the back, shelves and glass-front storage cabinets on the walls. In the middle of the tiled floor, my Beretta is laying on an 8-foot long table. I pick up the gun, grab my night-vision goggles, and return to my Irish Death.

Nearly an hour later, I crouch in the shadows near the neighbor’s shack, shotgun locked and loaded, with a clear line-of-sight through the front window. If the girl is in there, hopefully, I’ll see her.

I let Celine down a dozen years ago. That sucked the life out of Ellen and our son. For this girl, maybe I can get it right. My jaw tightens. Deputy Baker probably never stepped inside the place when he “checked things out.” It was easier for him to buy the story about me harassing my neighbor into selling his property cheap. No doubt the bastard is still gloating over how he conned the law.

A half-hour later, there’s no sign of her or anyone else. I plunk down at the base of a large tree and lean back against the trunk. Another uneventful half-hour passes before someone appears in the window. I scramble to my feet to get a better view. My legs wobble—the left one stinging from a thousand pin pricks.

Before my legs are steady, the neighbor opens the front door and shuffles down the steps, cradling a shotgun in his arms. Without hesitating, he walks around to the back of the shack and follows the firebreak that cuts through the woods.

After a couple of minutes, I sneak up to the window and peek in. Appears that nobody else is home. My heart races as I turn the knob, check over my shoulder, and push the door open a crack. I listen for any sounds … then step across the threshold.

There isn’t much to the place. A living area, wood stove, washstand with a bucket and towels, and one bedroom with two mattresses—one on top of the other—a dresser and some boxes. No sign of a girl here. A ladder leads to a loft. I climb up and glance around. The space is hardly bigger than a closet,
completely bare. Hell of a place for a kid. The bastard’s treating her like an animal. But, where is she?

I climb down the ladder, slip out the door, and steal around back, stopping short a few yards from the firebreak. I click off the safety and step lightly, my eyes darting right and left, half-expecting the neighbor to pop out from behind cover. After a few steps, I kneel to study the grass—it’s been mashed down. Probably the pickup I saw parked here the other night. After I threatened to report the bastard for child abuse, he must have driven her back into the woods to hide her from CPS. That’s why Baker didn’t find any trace of her. I prop the Beretta on my shoulder, and follow the tire tracks.