Wildwood Road (2 page)

Michael paused and blinked several times. The crisp air made him straighten up. His cheeks stung. It was the end of October, but tonight it felt like December. His breath fogged.

“Michael,” Jillian began.

The smile was gone from her face, replaced by embarrassment.

“Hush,” he whispered. “Let's just get you home and into bed.”

She arched an eyebrow. “That's your answer to everything.”

He had to laugh. “What's wrong with that?”

“Not a thing.”

Her eyes drifted as she said this last, and her lids fluttered. He thought she might pass out at any moment.

Michael glanced around, reorienting himself. Their forest green Volvo was parked at the far left side of the lot. He took a moment to prop Jillian up better, slinging her arm around his neck, and then he helped her stagger across the lot. If they had been somewhere else he might have simply picked her up and carried her, the way he had lifted her over the threshold of the bridal suite on their wedding night. But they knew so many people here; she would not want anyone to witness such a spectacle.

At the car he was forced to lean Jillian against the door while he fished inside his costume for the keys. She lolled against the cold metal and the marionette image that had come to him earlier returned, but now it was of a puppet whose strings had been cut. A low hum came from her lips, but he could make no sense of it.

“Honey, you are a wreck,” he said, smiling softly.

One hand holding her in place, he thumbed the button on his key ring and the locks popped up. It took effort, but he managed to get her into the backseat, laying her down. Her eyelids fluttered once and she reached a slow-motion hand up toward him.

“Love you so much,” she mumbled.

“Love you, too,” Michael told her, and he watched her eyes close. She looked so innocent there, he could only imagine what she had been like as a little girl.
Not that you were a drunken little girl,
he thought, chuckling to himself.

In the morning, he planned to tease her mercilessly.

He shut the back door and then climbed into the driver's seat. The moment he was off of his feet he felt a tingling in his face, a little beer buzz working its way through his system. He started up the Volvo, its engine purring softly. He felt it humming beneath him as he opened his window and let the cold night air hit him. For several seconds he took stock of his condition. The truth was, other than that little buzz, he felt more tired than drunk.

Both hands on the wheel, he took a breath and let the cold air wash over his face again. “You'll be fine,” he said aloud, his voice strange to him in the car's interior, his hands lit by the glow from the dash. “You'll be fine.”

The window stayed open as Michael pulled out of the lot. He glanced back over the seat, one hand on the wheel, to check on Jillian. Wine and exhaustion had conspired to put her into a sound sleep, and she even snored a little. She murmured something and he smiled and returned his attention to the road.

Part of the charm of the Wayside Inn was that it was on Old Route 12, which wound through half a dozen or more towns in the Merrimack Valley but never had much by way of traffic. In the many decades since Old Route 12 had been laid down, other major highways had stretched their fingers up into the region. Three separate interstates crisscrossed the northern part of Massachusetts, and anyone who was in a hurry was wise to use one of them. That left only local traffic for Old Route 12. This time of night it was absolutely deserted.

The streetlights were far apart here, but they passed by overhead with a rhythm of their own, splashing light upon the windshield, illuminating the interior of the car. Black cable was strung from telephone poles, in some places crossing the road high above him. Much of Old Route 12 was lined with trees, and though there was the occasional strip mall or gas station or restaurant, it was mostly homes along that road. Some were recent—sprawling things built in the boom times at the tail end of the previous century or the opening days of the current one—but the majority were older. Michael had often admired the Federals, the Colonials, and the few Victorians along the road.

The windows were all dark, but some of the homes had lights on in front. There were jack-o'-lanterns on the steps and scarecrows tied to lampposts. Down one side street, in a recent development of half-million-dollar homes, he saw a house whose entire lawn was a Halloween scene, with orange lights, giant pumpkins, and a Grim Reaper. It was as though the owners had confused Halloween with Christmas.

The tires thrummed on the road and, in spite of the October wind in his face, Michael began to feel drowsy. The flicker of the streetlights began to lull him. He blinked several times, and when his head bobbed to his chest for the first time, he sat up straighter.

“Shit,” he whispered.

He slapped himself in the face several times, just hard enough to sting his frozen cheeks, and he opened his eyes as wide as he could.
Time for music. Something with a pulse.

There was a long curve ahead, so he waited until he had rounded it before he took a quick glance into the backseat again. Jillian was out cold. He doubted the radio would wake her. But even if it did, better that than to have her wake up in a ditch . . . or worse. Michael turned on the radio and scanned quickly over to Kiss 108. He hated the entire hip-hop/rap scene, but he knew that it would keep him awake. The thumping bass he had heard so often rattling other cars as they passed him or while waiting for a green light erupted from the speakers and he turned it up even louder, grimacing as he did so.

At the back of his skull, a dull ache had begun to grow. He was not certain if it was the Guinness or the music or the cold air.
Probably the combination,
he thought. He became aware of a bitter taste in his mouth and ran his tongue across his teeth. He loved Guinness, but like any other beer, it left a film in his mouth. Michael wanted something else to drink. He tried to remember if there was a Dunkin' Donuts on Old Route 12. If it was still open he could get a coffee. Replace one bitter aftertaste with another.

The road hummed. The engine growled. His eyelids grew heavy again despite the music. His cheeks felt numb, and though he wanted to think it was the chilly October night, he knew better. Mainly because his feet were sort of numb, too, and it wasn't that cold down on the floormats. No, it was the Guinness, settling in.

Maybe he'd had more than he had realized.

The music thudded in his ears and the ache at the back of his skull began to throb. A streetlight strobed past the windshield and he blinked the glare away. The tires on the road were white noise. His mind drifted back to when he was eight years old, taking a bus trip to Florida with his family, riding through Lafayette in the middle of the night.

His head tilted forward, and the motion jerked him awake. Michael snapped his head up, panic trip-hammering through his heart. The road was curving to the right . . . but he was going straight, crossing into the oncoming lane, the nose of the Volvo headed for a pair of telephone poles, a new one lashed to an older one to keep it from falling.

His mouth tasted like aluminum foil. Bile burned up the back of his throat. His face was flush with heat now, no longer numb.

Arms rigid, he pressed himself back into his seat and ratcheted the steering wheel to the right.

The streetlight above him winked out in that moment, casting the corner into darkness.

There was no one else on the road.

His tires shrieked on the blacktop.

A burst of elation like nothing he had ever felt surged up within him as he realized that he was going to do it, that he had righted the car. Then he came around the last of the curve, too far onto the shoulder, and saw the little girl on the side of the road.

She was blond. A tiny thing, caught in the glare of his headlights, golden hair fringed with that brightness as though she were an angel. Blue jeans. A ruffled peasant blouse. Yet the one thing that stood out most was her eyes. She stared at Michael through the windshield, gazing into the headlights with no sign of fear at all. She looked for all the world as though she had just woken from a nap.

“Jesus Christ!” Michael screamed.

His hands nudged the wheel to the left.

The Volvo passed by her so close that, looking out the passenger window, Michael could see her shake with the change in air pressure. He cursed in the dashboard glow, over and over as he slammed on the brakes. The tires skidded slightly on the pavement, but then the antilock kicked in and the car rolled just a bit before it stopped.

“Oh, my God,” he whispered, trying desperately to get his heart to slow, to get his breathing back to normal. He pursed his lips and blew out a breath.

Missed her,
he thought.
I missed her.

The night air rushed in, caressing his face, and that helped him catch his breath. His heart still thundered in his chest, but it was slowing. The radio ground out another rap song and suddenly it was too much for him. He punched the power button and all was silent inside the car, save for his own breathing and the purr of the engine.

His gaze fell upon the clock display, a green-white glow that read 12:21.

What the hell was a little girl doing wandering Old Route 12 at half past twelve on a frigid night, without even a jacket on? As he stared at the clock, there was a moment—only a moment—when Michael was sure he was going to look up to find that the girl was gone. Or, perhaps, that she had never been there at all.

Foot still on the brake, he turned to look out the rear window, and there she was, only a few feet behind the car, bathed in the rich red glow of his brake lights. Exhaust fumes swirled up from his tailpipe and she seemed lost in a crimson fog. Her expression had not changed.

Michael's breath caught in his throat and once more he shivered, but this time it was neither the alcohol nor the cold night air that caused it. It was the vacant, lost look in her eyes.

CHAPTER TWO

Shock,
Michael thought.
She's in shock.

The logic of this filtered through him and he let out a calming breath. He was still turned around in his seat, neck craned as far back as possible without forcing him to take his foot off the brake. The effect of the brake lights that illuminated the girl was eerie, and the exhaust fumes that swirled around her only added to that. But now that he studied her face more closely, Michael was certain she must be in shock.

Why shouldn't she be? I almost ran her over.

The blond girl was perhaps seven, but certainly no more than eight. Her face was expressionless, eyes wide, but more in total blankness than in surprise.

Poor thing.

Michael glanced down at Jillian. She had been lying on her side on the backseat, but the abruptness of the stop had tossed her slightly forward, so that her left arm dipped down toward the floor mat and her legs were tilted away from the seat. She mumbled, but did not wake.

His gaze rose once more. The girl stood there, unmoving, forlorn. Michael turned from her and put the car in park. He killed the engine, tugged out his keys, and popped open his door.

“You all right, honey?” he asked, as gently as he could.

The girl did not move as he approached her. Without the brake lights, she was no longer cast in that crimson hue. Only the moonlight provided illumination now—the nearest working street lamp was too far away—and in that lunar glow the girl's features were washed-out and pale. Michael went to her slowly, concerned that he might frighten her again.

“Hello. What's your name?”

She seemed frozen still, her gaze unfocused. Michael dropped to his knees on the pavement in front of her. He reached slowly to touch her arm and pulled his fingers back instinctively. Her skin was cold. So cold. What else had he expected on a night as frigid as this, with the girl walking around in jeans and a thin cotton blouse? He could not help but wonder what might have happened to drive her from her home. Were her parents terrified for her, or were they the sort of cruel people he read about from time to time, or saw on the news?

“Sweetie? My name's Michael. Can you tell me your name?”

No response.

“Are you lost?”

She blinked. A tiny gasp came from her lips, and at last her eyes focused on him. Her face was angelic, but it became heartbreaking when she nibbled on her lower lip. And then her mouth pursed, just for a moment, into a pout.

“The lights were bright,” she said, her small voice filled with the import that often accompanied children's proclamations.

“Yeah. I know. My car. I nearly hit you, honey, but you're all right. Okay? You're all right. So . . . you're lost? Is that right?” He was thinking now that perhaps she had followed a squirrel or a bird or the path of some gulley and gotten turned around. It would be easy to do around here, in the woods.

Halloween.
The thought struck him from nowhere. The holiday was still days away, but around here most towns had the kids trick-or-treat the Saturday night before to make it easier on parents who commuted. She must have been out for Halloween, trick-or-treating, and somehow . . .

Michael found himself staring at the stiff cuffs of his D' Artagnan shirt. The hat was on the passenger's seat in the car—or probably on the floor now, he hadn't noticed—but the shirt was enough to jar the realization. The girl had not been out trick-or-treating, not without a costume.

“I'm so cold,” she said, her voice stronger now.

“Are you lost?” he asked again. “Do you know where you belong?”

The question seemed to surprise her and she blinked several times, focusing on his face once more. Slowly, she shook her head.

“Do you know your phone number?”

Again, the shake of her head.

A hundred thoughts went through his mind. He couldn't call her parents and get their address. The logical next step was to put her in the car and take her to the police station. But Michael could still feel the flush of alcohol in his cheeks, the way in which he was not quite steady, even kneeling on the pavement. How the hell could he walk into the police station and tell the cops he had just driven the lost girl to them when they were sure to notice he had been drinking?

I could just call the police. Tell them she's here. Where to find her.

But as soon as this option occurred to him, Michael dismissed it. There was no specific code he lived by—he didn't take himself that seriously—but he knew without doubt that he was not the kind of man who would leave a shivering little girl on the side of the road to save his own ass. There was no way to know what might happen. She could wander off again.

He hung his head a moment and when he looked back up at her, there was something imploring in her eyes, as though she wanted to ask him something but could not speak the words. She hugged herself and shivered from the cold. Though she did not seem quite as shaken as she originally had, she was still a bit dreamy, disoriented, and he knew she needed to be looked at by a doctor.

Since the early days of their relationship, he had consulted Jillian on every important decision he had ever made. But Jillian was out cold in the backseat of the car. There would be no smile from her now, no brightly sparkling eyes, no wisdom.

Michael put an arm around the girl as he stood up. “You're going to be all right,” he promised. “I'm going to get you home. Back where you belong.”

He would take her to the police. It occurred to him that showing up with a missing girl in his car could be disastrously misconstrued, but Michael wasn't concerned. He had been at the party until a short time ago. No one could suggest he had done anything but try to help the girl. He hoped the cops would take that into consideration if they smelled Guinness on his breath.

Stop thinking about it. Just do what's right.

“Here. Hop in and let me get the heat cranking. It'll warm you right up.”

Michael got the girl into the passenger's seat. His D'Artagnan hat was indeed on the floor, and just before he could retrieve it, she shifted in the seat, using one foot for leverage, and crushed it. He said nothing, but for the first time since he had fallen asleep at the wheel, a smile flickered across his face. As he shut the door, he glanced at Jillian again in the back and wished she were awake.

Shaking his head in disbelief at the strange turns the night had taken, he opened the back door and rearranged Jillian more comfortably. She was probably too drunk to be disturbed, even if she had flown right off the seat and onto the floor, but he didn't like to see her that way, twisted around like a rag doll.

His keys jangled as he got into the car again and started up the Volvo. The lights came on instantly, casting a jaundiced light into the woods just ahead. The little girl had not put on her seat belt. He had asked her several times, but she had drifted into silence again. He pressed his lips tightly together, worried for her, then he bent over and buckled her seat belt snugly. The diagonal chest belt was too high and came across her throat, so he tucked it behind her, not wanting to imagine what would happen if he was in an accident and the belt went taut.

Michael pulled away from the shoulder of the road at 12:29.

He drove carefully, not too fast, but not too slowly, either. For the moment, the adrenaline surging through him had eliminated any trace of drowsiness, but the recollection was fresh in his mind and he feared its return.

Old Route 12 had been made to follow a natural path through the valley and wound back and forth, several times seeming to turn in upon itself. As he drove he stole glances at the girl. The streetlights flashed overhead, spaced even farther apart now. Twice, cars passed going the other direction, but otherwise the road was deserted. The radio was off, and the silence of the car was broken only by the hum of its engine and a light snore coming from Jillian in the backseat. The girl seemed frozen, her face as slack and her eyes as unfocused as they had been when he had first seen her. She did not look at him, did not even seem to wonder who was sleeping in the backseat, or why.

His brain was still fuzzy. No denying that. Michael still had a metallic taste in his mouth and the numbness had not left him. Now that the adrenaline rush was over, in fact, he felt even less steady than he had before. He had to keep his arms rigid upon the steering wheel to keep the car from drifting, and even then he had to adjust from time to time. The alcohol was starting to settle in. This wasn't just a pleasant buzz.

“Scooter,” she said softly.

Michael started.

“What?” he asked, glancing at her.

Her expression hadn't changed. If anything, she looked dreamy. Drugged. He frowned at the thought, wondering if that was possible. And of course it was. Anything was possible.

“Scooter,” she said. “You asked my name. It's Scooter. That's what Mommy calls me.”

Scooter,
he thought.
What kind of name is that?

His eyes were on her and so he saw her sit up slightly, saw her eyes narrow with interest, and then flicker with sadness. One of her tiny hands floated up and she pointed out through the windshield.

“Right there,” she said. “Turn right there.”

Michael glanced at the road, saw a tiny side street coming up, partially hidden in the trees until he was almost on top of it. He slowed.

“You recognize this street?”

She nodded.

Relief spread through him so quickly his skin tingled with it. The girl wasn't lost anymore. He could take her home. He wouldn't have to take her to the police station, which meant no trouble for him with the cops.

“Fantastic,” he said, and as the street came up quickly on his right, he took the turn, a little too fast. They both swayed left, but then they were rolling along past even thicker woods, the occasional house hidden back in the trees.

“Just keep an eye out. Let me know where to turn,” he told her.

The girl sat with her hands in her lap as though she was at church. She clutched the hem of her peasant blouse in her fingers and studied the road ahead. And yet there was something about her sudden alertness that caused Michael to glance sidelong at her time and again.

Her breath did not come quickly, but it had a little hitch to it, and as her chest rose and fell he thought he could hear her heart fluttering like a frightened bird's. Though her gaze searched the splash of the headlights on the road ahead, her eyes shifted every few moments to the dark woods around them, as though she feared some predator stalked her through the trees.

“There. Turn there,” she said, with another nervous glance into the darkness between a pair of split-levels.

Caught up with her anxiety, Michael found himself searching the trees on the right side of the car as well. It took him a moment to register what she had said. When he did, he glanced up to see a green street sign gleaming in his headlights. A left turn. In the glare he could not read the street name, but he turned, distracted by the girl's agitation. As he made the turn she glanced over her shoulder, looking out through the rear window. Michael checked the rearview mirror.

“What are you looking for?” he asked, a bit surprised by the sound of his voice, by the tremor in it.

“I don't like the dark.”

He didn't bother to point out that he had found her walking along by herself at night on a stretch of road that had been pitch black except for the moon.

They drove like that for a while, mostly in silence, and from time to time the girl told him to turn. One street was very suburban, lined with lampposts, cars in driveways, Halloween decorations on nearly every stoop. Another was almost entirely woods. Several times, Michael looked in on Jillian in the backseat, but she snored on peacefully. Though his thoughts were muffled by the Guinness, he found his mind wandering, or at least drunkenly stumbling. The girl was afraid of something. First she was lost. Then she wasn't. She recognized a street, but now they had followed an odd zigzag through the valley so that he was no longer certain they were even in the same town.

Several times he began to drift and had to jerk the wheel to keep the tires from hitting the rutted shoulder of the road. They were now on a broad, winding way that led up a hill. Ranch houses hid in the trees, and he spotted an A-frame, which he'd always thought one of the oddest choices for a home. His face felt pleasantly warm, his hands as oddly numb as his feet. He was tired, and combined with the alcohol in his system and the warm air pumping out of the heating vents in the car, the tiredness was catching up to him.

Michael opened his window about halfway. The October air rushed in and he breathed it in, enjoying the feeling of it in his lungs. Fresh, crisp autumn air, with more than a hint of winter. He blinked, sat up a bit straighter, and glanced over at the girl.

She made no response, only continued to search the road ahead. Whatever had spooked her about the trees before no longer seemed to bother her.

“If you're cold, I can close it.”

As if she had not heard, she raised a hand and pointed through the windshield. “That one. That's where I belong.”

About time,
Michael thought. But when he looked out through the windshield, he frowned, and without even being aware of it, moved his foot from accelerator to brake, slowing the Volvo's ascent up the hill.

The house was in a dead-end circle at the top of the road. The hill continued upward, however, and though set back and surrounded by trees, the house loomed over the road as if it stood watch. It was an enormous, sprawling thing with darkened windows, the property untended. Once it would have been called a mansion, but Michael felt that size alone shouldn't earn a place that word. Its condition had to count for something. Michael knew only a little about architecture, but even so he felt that the house was an odd combination of styles. In front there was a single turret splitting a gabled roof, and a porch that seemed entirely out of place, wrapping around one side of the house's face but not the other. In the moonlight he could see that several shutters were hanging, shingles were missing from the roof, and at least one window was broken. The place was simply falling apart.