The Target (2 page)

He fixed himself a salad and ate it, never taking his eyes off the child. Then he heated the soup. It smelled very good. He waved a spoonful beneath her nose. “Come on now, wouldn't you like to have a taste? Campbell's is good stuff and it's hot, right off an old-fashioned woodstove. It takes a while to heat anything, but it does work. Come on now, sweetheart, wake up.”

Her mouth moved. He got a smaller spoon, dipped it into the soup, and lightly pressed it against her bottom lip. To his surprise and relief, her mouth opened. He dribbled in the soup. She swallowed, and he gave her more.

She ate nearly half a bowl. Only then did she open her eyes. She looked confused. Slowly, she turned her face toward him, and stared up at him. He smiled and said,
“Hello, don't be afraid. My name's Ramsey. I found you. You're safe now.”

She opened her mouth and there came the strange noise he'd heard, a soft mewling that sounded of bone-deep fright and helplessness.

“It's all right. No one will hurt you. You're safe now with me.”

Her mouth opened but no sound came out this time. Her arms came out from under the afghan and she flailed at him, the only sound her small mouth made was that awful mewling that made him want to pull this little scrap of humanity against him and protect her.

He quickly set down the spilled soup and grabbed her wrists. Her eyes fluttered closed, but not before he saw the flash of pain. He released her wrists. Both wrists were raw. She'd been tied up. “I'm sorry, sweetheart. I'm really sorry. Don't fight me, please. I won't hurt you.”

She huddled into a small ball and turned her back to him, her arms over her head, and didn't move.

He sat there wondering what he should do. She was terrified. Of him. He couldn't blame her.

Why didn't she scream at him? She'd just made those strange sounds. Was she mute?

He said very quietly, hoping she could hear him, “Your wrists and ankles are in bad shape. Can I bandage them for you? They'll feel better.”

Had she heard him? She still didn't move. He pulled an old undershirt from beneath the pile of clothes he'd brought and ripped it into strips. He felt every scrap of fear in her as he washed her wrists and ankles really well, smeared on some Neosporin, then wrapped the soft material around them, knotting them off. There, he'd done everything he could. He stood slowly, knowing now he shouldn't make any abrupt moves, and stared down at her. She was still in a tight little ball, her hands, now freed of him, tucked inside the covers.

She'd eaten a good bit of the soup. She wouldn't starve.
She was warm. She was clean. He'd smoothed antibiotic cream on the worst of the scratches and cuts. He looked toward the front door, then the front windows. He pulled down the shades and closed the curtains. Now no one could see in. He slid the bolts home on the windows. To get in, someone would have to shatter them. He walked to the back door in the kitchen and flipped the dead bolt. The door didn't have a chain. He pulled one of the kitchen chairs over and shoved it beneath the doorknob. Someone could shove the door open, but the chair feet would screech on the floor and certainly wake him up.

He looked at her one last time. “If you awaken, just call me. My name's Ramsey. I'll be here with you. You're safe now. All right? If you have to use the bathroom, it's just beyond the kitchen, behind you. It's clean. I just washed up in there yesterday.”

The covers moved just a little bit. Good, she'd heard him. But she didn't make a sound, not even that gut-wrenching mewling noise.

His bed was on the far side of the single room. He remained fully clothed. He put both the rifle and his Smith & Wesson on the small table by the bed, right next to the reading lamp. He carefully marked the page of the thriller he was reading and set it on the floor.

He left the single lamp lit. If she awoke during the night, he didn't want her to be terrified in the dark.

He didn't sleep for a long time. When he did finally, he dreamed there was a man's face staring in through the window at the little girl. He awoke and walked to the window, stumbling with fear and panic, but there wasn't any face staring in. The curtains were tightly drawn. He couldn't help it, he pulled the curtains open. He looked into the darkness and saw instead the contorted face of someone else, the woman who'd screamed at him that she would kill him.

He awoke at dawn at the sound of that ghastly mewling.

T
HE CHILD
'
S FACE
was leached of color, he could tell that even in the early-morning light that was mixed with the stark overlay of lamplight. Her eyes were wide open, staring up at him, her fear so palpable he could feel it crawling inside his skin.

“No,” he said very slowly, not moving. “It's all right. It's me. Ramsey. I'm here to take care of you. I won't hurt you. Did you have a nightmare?”

She didn't move, just lay there, staring up at him. Then, very slowly, she shook her head. He saw her arms move beneath the covers, saw her small hands come up over the top. The small hands were clenched. The bandages on her thin wrists looked obscene.

“Don't be afraid. Please.”

He turned the lamp off. It was getting lighter quickly. Her eyes were light blue, large in her thin face, her pupils dilated. She had a thin straight nose, dark lashes and eyebrows, a rounded chin, and two dimples. She was a pretty little girl, and she'd be beautiful when she smiled and those dimples deepened. “Are you in any pain?”

She shook her head.

He felt profound relief. “Can you tell me your name?”

She just stared at him, all frozen and tense, as if she were just waiting for her chance to run, to escape him.

“Would you like to go to the bathroom?”

He saw it in her eyes and smiled. Her kidneys were working. Everything seemed to be working fine except she couldn't speak. He started to touch her, to help her up, but didn't. He kept his voice low, utterly matter-of-fact. “The bathroom is on the other side of the kitchen. The kitchen's just behind you. Do you need any help?”

Slowly, she shook her head. He waited. She didn't move. Then he realized she didn't want to get up with him watching her.

He smiled and said, “I'm going to make some coffee. I'll see what I have that a little kid would like to eat, all right?”

Since he knew she wasn't going to answer, he just nodded and left her.

He didn't hear anything until the bathroom door shut. He heard the lock click into place.

He shook some Cheerios into one of the bright blue painted bowls and set the skimmed milk beside it. At least it wouldn't clog her arteries. He went to his store of fresh fruit. There were only two peaches left. He'd bought a half dozen, but eaten all the rest. He sliced one on the cereal.

He waited. He'd heard the toilet flush, then nothing more. Had something happened?

He waited some more. He didn't want to terrify her by knocking on the door. But finally too much time had passed. He lightly tapped his knuckles against the pine bathroom door. “Sweetheart? You all right?”

He heard nothing at all. He frowned at the locked door. Well, he'd been stupid. She probably believed she was safe from him now. She'd probably never come out willingly.

He poured himself a large mug of black coffee and sat down beside the bathroom door, his long legs stretched out nearly reaching the opposite wall. His black boots were
scuffed and comfortable as old slippers. He crossed his ankles.

He began to talk. “I'd sure like to know your name. ‘Sweetheart' is all right, but it's not the same as a real name. I know you can't talk. That's no problem now that I understand. I could give you a pencil and a piece of paper and you could write your name down for me. That sounds good, doesn't it?”

Not a whisper of sound.

He drank his coffee, rolled his shoulders, then relaxed against the wall, and said, “I'll bet you've got a mom who's really worried about you. I can't help you until you come out and write down your name and where you're from. Then I can call your mother.”

He heard that soft mewling again. He took another drink of coffee. “Yeah, I bet your mom is really worried about you. Wait a minute. You're too young to know how to write, aren't you? Maybe you're not. I don't know. I don't have any kids.”

Not a sound.

“Well, so much for that. Okay. Come on out now and have some breakfast. I have Cheerios and a sliced peach. All I bought was skimmed milk, but you can't tell any difference by the taste. You just don't want to look at it. It's all runny and thin. The peach is really good, sweet as anything. I ate four of them since I bought them two days ago. You're getting the second to the last one. I'll make you some toast too, if you'd like. I've got some strawberry jam. Come on out. I'll bet you're getting hungry.

“Listen, I'm not going to hurt you. I didn't hurt you yesterday, did I? Or last night? No, and I didn't hurt you this morning. You can trust me. I was a Boy Scout when I was young, a real good one. That person who hurt you, he won't come anywhere near here. If he does, I'll shoot him. Then I'll beat the crap out of him. Well, I didn't mean to say that exactly, but you know, I'm not around kids very often. I've
got three nieces and two nephews I see at least once a year and I like them. They're my brothers' kids. I taught the girls how to play football last Christmas. Do you like football?”

No sound.

He remembered his sister-in-law Elaine cheering when Ellen had caught a ten-yard pass in the makeshift end zone. “I'll try to be careful with my language. But you can count on this. If that monster comes anywhere close, I'll make him real sorry for hurting you. I promise.

“Please come out. The sunrise is beautiful. Would you like to see it? There are lots of pinks and soft grays and even some oranges. It's going to happen pretty quick now.”

The lock clicked open. The door slowly opened. She stood there wearing his undershirt that came to her small feet and was nearly falling off her shoulders.

“Hi,” he said easily, not moving a muscle. “You want some cereal now?”

She nodded.

“Can you help me up?” He held out his hand to her.

He saw the fear, the wild panic in her eyes. She looked at his hand as if it were a snake about to bite her. She scooted around him and ran into the kitchen. Okay, it was too soon for her to begin to trust him. “The milk's on the counter,” he called out. “Can you reach it?”

He walked very slowly back into the kitchen. She was sitting in the corner, pressed against the wall, the bowl of cereal hugged to her chest. Her face was very nearly into that bowl, her dark brown hair in thick tangles, hiding her face.

He said nothing, just poured himself some more coffee, slid two slices of wheat bread into the long-handled metal toaster, and held it over the woodstove. It only took about two minutes to brown the toast on each side. He sat down in one of the two kitchen chairs, straddling the back. The other one was still shoved beneath the back doorknob.

It came to him quite clearly at that moment that he wasn't about to give her over to strangers. She was his
responsibility and he willingly shouldered it. No, he couldn't begin to imagine what they'd do to her in a hospital: doctors, nurses, lab people, all of them poking around, terrifying her, shrinks showing her dolls and asking what the man had done to her, male doctors not understanding, treating her as if she were like any other little girl, when she wasn't. No, none of that, not now. And then the sheriff would get involved. Well, he would speak to the sheriff, but not just yet. Let her ease a bit more. Let her come to trust him, just a little.

“Would you like a slice of toast? I've learned how to work this toast holder really well. I haven't burned any bread now for nearly a week.”

The small head shook back and forth.

“Okay, I'll eat both slices. If you change your mind, I've got some really good strawberry jam, made right down there in Dillinger by a Mrs. Harper. She's been here for all of her sixty-four years.

“I've been here for nearly two weeks now. I come from San Francisco. This cabin was built by the grandfather of a friend of mine. He loaned it to me. I've never been here before. It's a beautiful place. Maybe later you can tell me where you come from. I wanted to be alone, to be completely away from everything and everyone, to be isolated, you know what I mean? No, I don't guess you'd have any idea, would you?

“Who said that life is too much with us? Maybe I did and just forgot. So much stuff can happen to you when you're grown-up, but then you're supposed to be able to handle it. But you're just a little kid. Nothing bad should have happened to you. I'll fix things if I can.

“But you know,” he continued slowly, eyeing the strips of undershirt on her wrists and ankles, thinking of that small battered body, knowing she'd been raped, “I think we should see a doctor, maybe in a couple of days, then we should see the sheriff. I hope Dillinger has a sheriff.”

The mewling sounds began. She laid the empty cereal
bowl on the floor beside him and raised her face. She began shaking her head, back and forth, back and forth, the mewling sounds coming from the back of her throat, raw and ugly.

He felt goose bumps rise on his arms. “You don't want to see a doctor?”

She pressed hard against the wall, her legs up, the undershirt wrapped around her like a white tent, her head tucked in, and she was rocking.

“Okay, we won't go anywhere at all. We'll stay right here all safe and snug. I've got lots of food. Did I tell you that I went into Dillinger just two days ago? I got stuff even a kid would like. I've got hot dogs and some of those old-fashioned buns that don't taste like anything, French's mustard, and some baked beans. I cut up onions in the beans, add mustard and some catsup, then put it in a pot on the stove for about twenty minutes. That sounds good, doesn't it?”

She stopped rocking.

Slowly, she turned her face toward him. She pushed back her hair.

“You like hot dogs?”

She nodded.

“Good. I do too. I bought some of those old-fashioned potato chips. The real greasy kind that makes your hands all oily. Do you like potato chips?”

She nodded again. She eased, just a little bit.

The kid liked food. It was a start. “Did you mind the skimmed milk?”

She shook her head.

What now? “Do you mind if I eat my toast? It's getting cold.” He didn't wait for her to nod again, just smiled at her and began to butter his toast. When he'd slathered strawberry jam on one slice, he held it out to her. “You want to try this?”

She stared at that piece of toast with a glob of jam about ready to fall over the edge. “Let me put it on a napkin.” Thank heaven he'd bought napkins.

He handed it to her. She took three fast bites, hardly chewing, then sighed and ate more slowly. She licked strawberry jam off her lower lip. For the first time she looked happy.

“Has it been a long time since you've eaten?”

She was chewing slowly on a bite of toast. She seemed to think about it. Then she nodded slowly.

“I see I've got to ask you only yes or no questions. Do you feel better this morning?”

Fear washed all the color from her face.

She was looking at her bandaged wrist holding the half slice of toast.

“I'll put some more medicated cream on your wrists and ankles after you finish your toast.” He said nothing more, just ate his own toast. What about the rest of her body? He knew he should examine her again but he didn't want to, not with her awake and terrified.

When they'd both finished, he rose and said as he walked away from her into the living area, “Would you like to have a bath? I can heat some water over the stove and pour it into the tub. I've got a couple of really big pans just for that purpose.” He knew without looking at her that she was probably shaking her head, pressed against the kitchen wall. “You're a big girl. You can bathe yourself, right?” He turned, smiling toward her.

Slowly, she rose. She nodded.

“I've got some shampoo in the bathroom. Can you wash your own hair? Good. Then I can put more cream on your wrists and ankles. There are a couple of other spots that need some medicated cream too. Now we've got a clothing problem. Tell you what. When you're through, just put the undershirt back on. I'll see what I can scrounge up for you.”

He'd gotten so used to silence over the past two weeks that hearing himself talk on and on felt strange. He felt the echo of his own voice inside himself.

After he'd heated enough hot water and poured it into the tub, he heated more for her to rinse her hair and set the
pots beside the tub. While she was in the bathroom, he sat down at the old Olivetti typewriter that had belonged to his mom. It felt comfortable hammering away at those dinosaur keys. He put on his glasses and began reading what he'd written the day before.

He didn't know how long he read. But suddenly he looked up to see her standing there beside his desk, making no noise, just standing there, her hair wet and tangled around her face, her wrists and ankles raw and ugly, her face shiny and clean, wearing his undershirt.

“Hi,” he said, taking off his glasses. “I'm sorry I didn't hear you come out. When I work I tend to forget where I am. Why don't you come over and sit on the couch.”