Part 16 (1/2)
”I'm fine. Now please go. I'll join you as soon as I can. Tell Petra that I love her and I'll see her soon.” I kiss Fielda on the forehead and turn to Mrs. McIntire. ”Thank you for looking after my wife. I am grateful.”
”I'm glad to help. Fielda and I have become fast friends.”
”I'll go get my purse, oh, and Snuffy,” Fielda says as she hurries into the house. Snuffy is Petra's stuffed anteater, which she sleeps with each night.
Mary Ellen leans in close to me. ”You know who did this, don't you?”
”I think I do, yes.” I do not look her in the eye.
”He did terrible things to Petra,” she states. I notice it is not a question.
”Yes, he did.”
”You're going after him, aren't you?”
”Yes, I am.” I now look her straight in the eye, trying to determine if she will tell Fielda, who would rail against my foolishness.
Mary Ellen McIntire and I stand in the shadows of the porch; she briefly touches my arm, but says nothing.
Fielda and her mother emerge from the house, purse and Snuffy in hand. She kisses my lips, tells me she loves me, then gets into Mrs. McIntire's car and drives away. I stand for a long time, watching until the red glow from the car's taillights disappears, and then I trudge up the steps, into the house, and flick off the porch light. I sit in the dark at the kitchen table, trying to gather my thoughts.
Then I stand stiffly, my muscles protesting, and I go upstairs to my mother-in-law's extra bedroom. I open the closet door and reach high behind the photo alb.u.ms and behind Mrs. Mourning's wedding gown, the very same dress that Fielda wore for our wedding. The gown is wrapped in paper and sealed in a box, tied with a blue ribbon. I stand on the tips of my toes and fumble around for the wooden box. My hand grazes the container and I am able to nudge it toward me. I pull the box down and lay it on the bed. It is not locked. I lift the top and hear the slight creak of its bra.s.s hinges. Inside is a gun. I do not know the caliber or the brand name. I have never been interested in firearms. The gun that I have set before me belonged to Fielda's father who had pa.s.sed away many years before, long before I had met her. Fielda's mother does not know why she keeps it; guns scare her, but she cannot bring herself to give it away, and most likely has forgotten that it is up here. I take the gun out of its velvet-lined box and am surprised at its heaviness for such a small gun. One lone bullet rolls around in the box and I pull it out and hold it tightly, warming it within my sweaty palm. I glance at my watch and know that I am short on time. I need to hurry.
ANTONIA.
I look at Calli as she sleeps. Her dirty face isn't peaceful, unlined and untroubled as a seven-year-old little girl's face should be in sleep. Deep grooves have settled in the s.p.a.ce just above the bridge of her nose and her lips are pinched tightly. On another examining table, next to Calli, sits Ben. Dr. Higby and Molly are now tending to him, collecting more evidence. His face is a mess. I have avoided asking Ben the question that has rested on my tongue since I first glanced at him when he entered the hospital. Who did this to you? Who did this to you? I am afraid of the answer. I am afraid of the answer.
I dip the washcloth that Molly has given me in a basin of warm water and begin to wipe the dirt from Calli's body. I start at her face, beginning at her hairline, trying to gently smooth the channels that travel along her forehead. I move down behind her ears, along her cheeks and under her chin, carefully lifting and lowering her head as if she is an infant. I see her nearly naked form on the table, except for her hospital gown and the thick white gauze that is wrapped around her feet; the number of bruises that dot her arms once again startles me, even though I had watched Molly take pictures of them earlier. These are no childhood bruises caused by a careless tumble or by an accidental b.u.mp into a sharp corner. I gently fit my fingers around the even arrangement of the marks and shudder.
I continue my was.h.i.+ng of Calli, now focusing on her hands, trying to rinse away the dirt that has collected in the little wrinkles that form her knuckles and in the valleys that score the inside of her palms.
I trace the lines on her palm, now pink from my scrubbing, and I wonder at her future, my little damaged girl. And I wonder about Griff. Where is he?
”Well,” says Dr. Higby, ”we've got one broken nose and what appear to be three broken ribs on Ben here. You'll live, Ben, but you won't be playing any contact sports for a while.”
Ben snorts a little at this and looks sadly at me.
”We're going to get Calli settled into her room for the night. You two are welcome to stay with Calli tonight or you are free to go home,” Dr. Higby tells us.
”Stay,” Ben and I say at the same time and we smile at each other. We both know we need to be with Calli.
”I'd like to run home and get a few things. Some clean clothes, Calli's blanket and stuffed monkey,” I tell Dr. Higby.
”That's probably a good idea,” Dr. Higby says. ”Calli is going to need all the comfort she can get in the next few days. And, Ben, no offense, but you could use a shower and a clean s.h.i.+rt.”
Ben laughs and I am glad. Whatever happened up there wasn't enough to take Ben's laugh away.
”Do you have a way to get back to your house?” Molly asks. I frown. No, I don't. My car is back at the house, I am stranded at the hospital. I very much want Calli to wake up with her yellow blanket and monkey. I think of Rose, the nice paramedic, and her offer to help out in any way that she was able.
”I think I do,” I tell Molly.
DEPUTY SHERIFF LOUIS.
Tucci, Dunn and I retrace the path that Ben and I came down on the four-wheeler. We pause for a moment at the carca.s.s of the dog that Martin Gregory and I had found earlier in the evening. I wonder if the dog had anything to do with the events of the day and make a mental note to suggest that the forensic team investigate. ”Did Charles Wilson, the school counselor, ever find his dog?” I ask.
”Don't know,” Tucci answers. ”We had nothing to hold him on. His wife said she woke up at about seven this morning and that he left sometime before then to walk the dog on the trails.”
”Do we know where Wilson is right now?” I ask, wondering if we hadn't let Wilson go prematurely. From the glow of my flashlight I see Tucci shrug his shoulders. ”Call into dispatch and check on it. We need to cover all bases.” Suddenly I feel foolish tracking some unseen being in the forest in the dead of night. I don't know what made me think that I would be able to find whomever I had seen crouched among the trees. I guiltily admit to myself that perhaps I hoped that, I, the fearless hero, Antonia's hero, would bring Griff in. Ben had told me that it was Griff up there on top of the bluff. It was Griff who beat him, and it was Griff who left Petra and Ben up there all alone.
”Do you see anything?” Tucci asks after we had been walking for about forty minutes.
”Naw,” I say, disgusted with myself.
”He's probably long gone now. We may as well go back. We'll organize a search for daybreak. He could be anywhere by now,” Dunn says.
The radio at my hip crackles and the dispatcher lets me know that I have a guest waiting for me down at the bottom of the bluff. Agent Fitzgerald.
”Let's go,” I tell Tucci and Dunn, convinced that Griff is still out here, waiting, for what I'm not sure.
When we step out of the forest I can see Fitzgerald deep in conversation with a man and woman dressed in civilian clothing. The headlights from two cruisers light them up from behind. I figure the two people that Fitzgerald is talking to are other agents from his office. When we approach the group they stop talking and look at us. I can tell by the look on Fitzgerald's face he isn't happy with me.
”What the h.e.l.l do you think you were doing?” he spits at me. Tucci and Dunn s.h.i.+ft uncomfortably behind me.
”Have you gotten word on Petra Gregory's condition?” I ask, ignoring Fitzgerald's obvious anger.
”She's still unconscious, but stable. There's evidence of s.e.xual a.s.sault,” the woman next to Fitzgerald tells me and my stomach clenches as I think of Calli. ”I'm Special Agent Lydia Simon. This is Special Agent John Temperly. We're here to help with the investigation involving the two little girls. I understand you've had quite an evening.”
”You could say that,” I tell her, still eyeing Fitzgerald warily, waiting for his next burst of anger.
”You took two civilians-worse, two of the victims' parents-on an unauthorized search,” Fitzgerald says in a threatening voice. Agent Simon places a hand on Fitzgerald's arm and he instantly quiets. I get the sense that she has great influence over Fitzgerald, is perhaps his senior in their department.
”You found the two girls and the boy?” Simon asks me.
”Actually, Calli Clark found us. We were standing right about here when she came out of the woods. She was carrying Petra Gregory's necklace and underwear. We figured out that Petra and Calli's brother, Ben, were still at the top of the bluff.”
”You let Martin Gregory go up the bluff,” Fitzgerald says accusingly.
”There was no way I was going to stop him.” I can't keep my own irritation out of my voice. ”I called for an ambulance and backup and followed him up the bluff. He thought that Ben Clark had something to do with what happened to Petra and he was going up there, ready to kill anyone at the top that might have hurt his daughter!”
”You should have followed procedure and waited for backup,” Fitzgerald shoots back at me.
”Hold on now,” Agent Simon says. ”Let's just all get up to speed on the investigation and go from there. We can't change what has happened and the girls are safe. Let's focus on finding who did this.”
”Ben Clark, Calli's brother, said that Griff Clark, their father, was the one,” I say, trying to make my voice sound professional again.