Say Goodbye (21 page)

“The fish hatchery!” Kimberly remembered.

Duff nodded approvingly. “That’s right. We got the fish hatchery located off of USFS Sixty-nine. Then there’s USFS Forty-two, also known as Cooper Gap Road. But see, by USFS standards those two roads are like superhighways. It’s the dozens of other muddy, unmarked, nearly impassible roads that make life interesting. They’re used just enough that if a four-wheel-drive vehicle was spotted parked overnight, no one would question it. And yet, the roads and trails are also remote enough, you can go for miles without ever seeing another soul. For your guy, they’d be perfect.”

“How many of these roads are we talking?” Sal asked.

Duff shrugged. “Hell if I know. I’ve lived in these mountains my entire life and I doubt even I know all of ’em. What you need is a decent USFS map. And probably a USGS map, as well, because those government types don’t always talk.”

“That would be the other option,” Kimberly said immediately. “The U.S. Forestry Service and Geological Survey teams. You’re right, they’re the ones traipsing all over these mountains, collecting samples, building databases. I worked with a team out of Virginia once. They spend more time in the backwoods than any hiker out there. If we could get them our composite sketch, plus a description of the suspect’s vehicle, they might know something.”

“I got some friends there I can call,” Duff offered. “They are the eyes and ears of the mountains, so to speak.”

“So,” Sal murmured between pursed lips. “We can distribute our flyer to some of the local establishments, see if we get any hits. Then strike up a dialogue with the USFS and USGS folks.”

“You know, between Sheriff Wyatt and myself, we got quite a crew. Most of our deputies would be happy to assist with something other than the normal naughty tourist or punch-drunk high schooler. Wyatt’ll be back by the end of the week. I’ll debrief him, then we’ll both take a crack at it.”

“I don’t want the subject spooked,” Sal stated. “Priority at this point is to find the girls and/or their remains. Then we go after Dinchara.”

“Dinachara?” Duff frowned. “Thought you said you didn’t have a name.”

“It’s an alias. An anagram for arachnid.”

“Say what?”

“You know, arachnid, as in spiders.”

“I know arachnid, son. I’m just not sure what a grown man is doing naming himself after a bug.”

“Catching prey,” Kimberly said quietly. “Except for one. Sal, tell him about Ginny Jones.”

It was after six by the time they left Duff. Most of the stores were closed, but they managed to find Wylie’s Restaurant and show off the sketch. No one recognized the drawing, but the manager promised to keep her eye out. Sal handed her his card, then they were on their way.

Next up was the Smith House, once a grand private residence, now a recently renovated hotel, country store, and restaurant. The lobby smelled like buttermilk biscuits and candied yams. That was enough for Kimberly.

“Dinnertime!” she declared.

Rainie and Quincy were game. Sal, who’d already dined on fried chicken, merely shrugged. “I can always eat.”

Food was served family style. They paid a flat fee to the girl working the cash register in the lobby. She gave them tickets to take downstairs to the dining hall, where they would be served all the fried chicken, baked ham, roast beef, dumplings, okra, steamed vegetables, and homemade rolls they could stand. No alcohol, but unlimited iced tea and lemonade.

At the bottom of the stairs, they discovered the entranceway to a twenty-foot mining shaft. All Kimberly could see was a deep black hole, barricaded with Plexiglas. Didn’t seem that exciting, but Quincy and Rainie lingered long enough to watch the video documenting its discovery.

A red-cheeked waitress found Kimberly and Sal two seats next to a family of six. They met Grandma and Grandpa, Mom and Dad, and four-year-old twin boys. The twins ran laps around the table, while the very tired mother shot Kimberly a wan smile and said, “Hope you don’t mind.”

“Not a problem,” Kimberly assured, and then patted her own stomach.

The woman’s eyes widened. “Oh, is it your first?”

“Yep.”

“You and your husband must be very excited.” She shot Sal a smile.

He froze with his hand on the bowl of peas. “What?”

“I’m very happy,” Kimberly told the woman. “At least at the moment.”

The woman laughed. “Yes, ma’am, that’s the way it is. Is it a girl or boy? Do you know?”

“No, we want to be surprised.”

“So did we,” the woman said. “And boy, were we. If I could offer one bit of advice?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t have twins.”

Rainie and Quincy arrived and made their introductions. Rainie dug into the fried okra with gusto. Quincy picked his way delicately through the steamed vegetables and baked ham.

The smell of meat didn’t bother Kimberly as much as it had yesterday. Another phase ending? A new phase beginning? Life, even prenatal life, didn’t stand still. She nibbled on some ham, okra, catfish. She started to feel that warm, contented glow that came from a good meal, a productive day, the companionship of family and friends.

She’d forgotten about the sketch until the waitress returned with refills of iced tea.

“Oh, is he a friend of yours as well?” the waitress asked, gesturing at Kimberly’s open bag.

“Who?”

“The man in that picture. We used to see him in here all the time. With his boy, of course. Those teenagers, my Lord, they can eat.”

Sal stopped chewing. He held a drumstick suspended between his greasy hands, staring at the sketch, the woman, the sketch again.

Kimberly recovered first. “You know him?”

“I recognize him. In the fall he came in quite often. About yay-high, right? Not real big, but strong looking. Has some muscle to him. And always wearing that cap, even when at the table.” The waitress shook her head. “I tell you, in my day, my grandmother would’ve tanned my hide for less.”

“His name?”

“Oh um…” She bit her lower lip, cradling the pitcher of iced tea on her hip, thinking. “Bobby? Bob? Rob? Ron? Richard? You know, I can’t remember now. I’m not sure he said.”

“What about the boy?” Kimberly pressed.

“Skinny white thing. Sixteen, seventeen years old. All arms and legs, but no meat on his bones. You know how teenage boys look—like they’ve never been fed. He’s a quiet one. Sat, ate, barely said a word.”

“And the boy’s name?”

Again the waitress shook her head. “You know, some folks come here because they’re feeling social, they like to introduce themselves and strike up a friendly conversation. Others…hey, they just come for the okra. Who are we to judge?”

“Do you remember how the man paid?” Rainie spoke up, following the conversation intently.

“Sorry, ma’am, that would’ve been taken care of upstairs.”

“But if he paid with a credit card…” Kimberly murmured, following Rainie’s train of thought.

“We need to speak to the manager,” Sal announced.

The other family was aflutter now. “Is everything all right? Who is this fellow? Anything we should know?”

All eyes were on Sal. Even the twins had stopped running. “Routine investigation,” he assured them brusquely, then he had his arm on Kimberly’s shoulder, pulling her up.

She didn’t need any encouragement. They made a beeline for the manager’s office.

Turned out going through all the credit card receipts would take some time. They needed to provide more specifics. Date, time, amount? The waitress was summoned to see if she could recall an exact date. She thought the man and his son had come in half a dozen times between September and November. With a bit of prodding, she narrowed one of the visits to sometime over the Columbus Day weekend. The amount would be for two people, late in the evening, the waitress believed. She had been surprised the boy was allowed out at that hour.

Credit card receipts were not computerized. Instead, the manager pulled open a file drawer, organized by month. Turned out the Smith House was a popular choice for lodging and meals. Particularly Columbus Day weekend.

Kimberly returned to the dining hall to find her father and Rainie and deliver the happy news.

“Manager needs some time to sort the records, so guess what, folks? We’re spending the night!”

THIRTY

BURGERMAN MADE HIS MOVE.

I woke up last night to the sound of muffled screams. It went on all night. Burgerman always rode his new toys long and hard, until they broke. Just like me.

In the morning, I knew the drill. Got up, went into the kitchen, ate breakfast. Pretended it was the most natural thing in the world to see a naked seven-year-old boy sitting at the beat-up table, stupefied, in front of an overflowing bowl of cereal. Boy didn’t say anything. Just stared at his Froot Loops as they slowly turned dark red, green, and blue.

I didn’t make eye contact. Didn’t want the boy to think I had anything to do with anything.

Burgerman was still in the bedroom. Probably recovering from the night’s exertions. I noticed the phone had disappeared and the door had gained a new bolt lock up high, beyond the new toy’s reach. My pulse quickened slightly. I wondered if the Burgerman remembered the phone in my room. I wondered if he had snuck in in the middle of the night and stolen it.

I did my best to nonchalantly stroll back to my bedroom. Phone was still there. I decided not to take any chances, and I removed it myself, hiding it up in my closet. Like hell I was losing privileges just because Burgerman couldn’t control his appetites.

Back in the kitchen, I poured another bowl of cereal and sat munching in the silence. My presence must have galvanized the boy, because he slowly picked up his spoon and slurped up some soggy cereal. I wondered if he would keep it down. Some did. Some didn’t.

He’d be gone in a day or two, once the Burgerman had had his fill. Did he kill them, turn ’em loose? I didn’t know. I didn’t care. I couldn’t remember anymore what year I had been born, my exact birth date. But I must have been a teenager, because the only emotion I could muster anymore was contempt. For Burgerman, the kid, myself.

And then, for no good reason, I thought of the very first boy. All those years ago. The one I’d thought I could help. I wondered if they ever found his body, or if he remained, rotting alone under the azalea bush.

The thought made me angry. I grabbed my cereal bowl, slammed it into the sink. The sound made the new toy flinch.

Burgerman walked into the room.

He’d put on pants, but not a shirt. The years hadn’t been kind to him. His beard held more gray than black, his frame had grown slack from too much beer and greasy food, the skin hanging from his thin chest and scrawny arms. He looked exactly like he was, an aging, white-trash son of a bitch, one foot in the grave and still mean as a rattlesnake.

I hated him all over again.

He looked at me. Then put a hand on the new boy’s shoulder. At the first contact, the boy flinched, then froze, sitting motionless while tears welled up in his eyes.

Suddenly, the Burgerman beamed at me. “Son,” he announced triumphantly. “Meet Boy. He’s your new replacement.”

And I knew, in that moment, that the Burgerman must die.

I waited until the Burgerman retired to his bedroom, dragging Boy behind him. Then I disappeared into my own room, stocked such as it was with a dumpy twin mattress, milk crate clothing bins, and a tiny black-and-white TV I’d salvaged from the neighbor’s trash and repaired myself.

My room stank. The sheets, bedding, dirty clothes. Everything held the rank, sweaty odor of unwashed skin, too-long nights. The whole dingy apartment smelled this way. Milk soured in the fridge. Dirty dishes overflowed the sink. Cockroaches scuttled across the stove.

It pissed me off all over again. The rancid stench of my own life. The endless, gray nothingness that marked my existence. Because the Burgerman had chosen me and after that I’d never had a chance.

Now there wouldn’t even be graduation. Oh no, the Burgerman had a new plaything now. A toy he planned on keeping. Meaning my days were numbered.

And for no good reason, the sting of Burgerman’s rejection hurt me more than his affection ever had.

I was stupid. I was weak. I was nothing.

The Burgerman had killed me. I just didn’t know how to die.

The screaming again. The poor stupid boy shrieking as if that would make a difference.

I crawled into the middle of the bed, pulling the blankets over my head and covering my ears with my hands. I went to sleep.

When I woke up later, it was dark. I lay on my mattress for a long time, watching the way the streetlight filtered through my blinds, creating slashes of light against the far wall.

Then I got up, went to the closet, and fetched the telephone.

Back to my mattress, I lifted the corner and retrieved a phone book I’d smuggled inside the apartment when the Burgerman wasn’t looking.

When I finally found the number, my hands were shaking and my mouth had gone dry.

I didn’t let myself pause, didn’t let myself think too much.

Plug in the phone. Dial the digits.

At the first pickup, “Help me,” I whispered, “Please help me.”

Then I hung up the phone and cried.