South Of Hell

room’s white walls took on the glow of the television.

The bottle of wine was there on the table. As she poured herself some in a plastic cup, she noticed two things on the table.

One was the card Lily had sent Louis. The other was a map of Michigan that Joe had bought Amy after they left the courthouse.

So many questions. Where do you live? What kind of house do you have? Is Lake Michigan big? Do they have bears up there?

On the map, Amy had traced the route from Ann Arbor to Echo Bay in red marker. Printed across the outline of the Leelanau Peninsula were the words: MY NEW HOME.

Joe took a sip of wine and stared at the flickering lights of the television.

God, was she ready for this? Just the idea that someone else was going to be dependent on her was unsettling. Protection… she could manage that. That was her job, after all. But what about the rest? The nurturing and soul shaping and all those other things mothers were put on the earth for.

Her eyes went to the phone, and she thought for a moment about calling her mother. Florence Frye was often awake this early. But Joe was almost afraid of what her mother would say. She had a sudden memory of when she was seven, coming into the kitchen cradling yet another bedraggled stray cat. And her mother’s words: You can’t save them all, Joe.

She would call her mother when she and Amy got back to Echo Bay. She’d find a way to explain. Maybe her mother would come for a visit. Maybe when she met Amy…

Joe shut her eyes. Maybe this was a mistake. But it was one she was willing to make.

She opened her eyes, set her glass down, and went quietly to the door between the two rooms, opening it softly. The lights were off, and Joe slipped in. As she moved deeper into the room and her eyes adjusted, she slowed.

Amy’s bed was empty.

Joe hurried to the far side of the bed to see if Amy was sleeping on the floor. When she didn’t see her, she pushed open the bathroom door and flicked on the light. Nothing.

She hurried back to the bedroom and hit the light switch. The blanket was crumpled, but there was no sign of a struggle. She spun to the outside door. The chain was off.

In two steps, she was there. It was unlocked, and she threw it open. The narrow hall was deserted and quiet. In desperation, she rushed to the window at the end and frantically scanned the parking lot below. Nothing was moving.

She ran back through Amy’s room into her own and hit the light switch. When Louis didn’t move, she shook him.

“Louis! Wake up!”

He bolted upright, almost hitting her in the face with his elbow.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, squinting.

“She’s gone!” Joe said.

“What? Who?”

“Amy! She’s gone. He took her, Louis. That bastard took her!”

Louis bolted from the bed and ran to the adjoining room. Joe followed him.

“He couldn’t get in here without her unlocking the door, and she wouldn’t do that, Joe. She’s probably hiding.” He searched the closet, then got onto his knees to look under the bed.

“No, she wouldn’t do that! I know-”

Joe froze as her eyes found the piece of paper wedged under the lamp on the desk. She snatched it up.

Dear Miss Joe,

I want to go to Echo Bay with you. But I am worried that when Mr. Shockey dies there will be no one left here to look for Momma. So I have to try one more time. I didn’t ask you to help me because you need to stay here and take care of Mr. Kincaid. Please don’t worry about me. I know where I am going and I am not afraid. I will be back sometime tomorrow.

Amy

Joe pushed her hair from her face, the flood of relief that Amy wasn’t in Brandt’s hands quickly giving way to dread. Her eyes went to the empty chair in the corner. Amy had taken her backpack.

Louis noticed Joe’s pale face and the paper in her hand. “What is it?” he asked.

“She’s gone to the farm,” Joe said.

Chapter Thirty-nine

She wasn’t afraid to ride in the big trucks now. At one in the morning, the freeway near Ann Arbor, the one less than five hundred feet from the hotel door, rumbled with a caravan of them.

She stood in the cold darkness for less than five minutes before a big, muddy red semi squealed to a stop. The driver was dirty, and the cab smelled like cigarettes, but she climbed up into the seat anyway. Because she wasn’t afraid of him, either.

Where you going, little girl?

I’m not a little girl. I’m sixteen. And I’m going to see my mother.

For the next hour, as they drove west, the man talked of his son and his fishing boat and the thousands of miles he’d spent behind the wheel of this old truck. She’d listened politely, fighting sleep and hoping Miss Joe wouldn’t be mad at her in the morning.

The man must’ve felt sorry for her, because he offered to drive off the freeway and drop her closer to the farm. She was going to tell him no, but it was so cold and dark. So she changed her mind and told him she would appreciate that.

Where is this farm, Missy?

Just south of Hell. But if you miss the road leading in, you end up down in Bliss.

The semi was too big to make it down the rutted gravel and dirt of Lethe Creek Road. And when the man pulled to a stop in front of the closed Texaco station, he said he wasn’t sure he should leave her out here alone.

You sure you’re okay, Missy?

Yes, sir, I got kin here.

She slipped out of the truck and closed the door, clutching her backpack to her chest. With a rattle of gears and a churn of mud, the truck pulled away. She stood in the darkness under the old Texaco sign, but she wasn’t afraid. There were no strange voices in her head anymore, no flashing memories of green corn, no screaming horses.

There was just her.

As she hurried down the dark road, it started to drizzle. The dark outline of the barn came to her, then the house beyond. She went through the fence and stopped under the old oak tree in the front yard. It was so quiet the pop-pop-pop of the drops falling on the leaves overhead was the only sound she could hear.

She stood as still as possible and closed her eyes, waiting for that tingling she sometimes got when she felt her mother’s presence near.

But there was nothing.

She crept up to the house. The kitchen door was ajar, the lock hanging on splintered wood.

She stood there and stared at it.

Had someone come here looking for her father? No, he was not her father anymore. Mr. Shockey was her father, and… that other man had hurt him.

She pushed inside the broken door, stopping again in the kitchen. There was just enough light to make out