Sheriff Carmichael huffed out a heavy sigh then grimaced noticeably. “Merrie Frances Callahan lives her life in a year long continuous loop, Constance. For her, it’s always nineteen seventy-five. That never changes. And, if you try to take her out of her little world, she just shuts down. That’s what I was trying to tell you when we were inside.”
“Shuts down?” she repeated. “Mentally, you mean?”
“And physically,” he said, punctuating the statement with an animated nod. “Last time a doctor tried to force her into the here and now, she almost died. She reverted to a catatonic state, was hooked to a feeding tube, and was just wasting away. That was right around ten or twelve years before Tom and Elizabeth died in that wreck, give or take. I was still playing detective in Kansas City back then.
“I do remember that they were actually expecting her to go at any moment. They’d already resigned themselves to it. Made funeral arrangements and everything. She was literally that bad off. It was gettin’ close to Christmas, and Elizabeth was a sentimental sort, so she got out all of Merrie’s old things and re-decorated her room back to how it originally was.” He shrugged. “Then, like some kind of damn miracle, she got better. Well…as better as she could, I guess. For most of the time, anyway.”
There was a pained sadness in the last comment, and Constance picked up on it instantly. “What do you mean by most of the time?”
“It gets a little rough this time of year. You heard what she said about Santa Claus.”
Constance nodded. “Repressed memories.”
“Something like that,” he replied. “Probably worse.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning they might not stay repressed.”
“Are you saying she actually relives the abduction and abuse?”
“We’d like to hope not,” he said then nodded. “But, unfortunately, in her head, we think she does, yeah.”
“You think she does?”
He thrust his chin toward her. “What time is it?”
Constance furrowed her brow in confusion at his query but pushed up the cuff of her glove and glanced at her watch anyway. “Two thirty-eight. Why?”
He bobbed his head toward the building. “In a couple of hours it’ll be right about the time Merrie was abducted thirty-five years ago. All of a sudden, just like someone flipped a switch, the girl who just painted your nails will go catatonic. She won’t snap out of it till about five on Christmas morning. Happens every year. After that, it’s like her clock is reset.”
“So that’s what Martha meant earlier about keeping an eye on the time.”
“Yeah,” he nodded. “That’s what she meant. When Merrie wakes up it will be pretty much like nothing ever happened. For her, it will be Christmas Day, nineteen seventy-four, which in her mind was the last time the holiday was ever good to her. We even have a tape of the ball dropping in Times Square, New Year’s Eve, to ring in seventy-five. She stays up to watch it every year.”
“What about other things? Like school and such? People aging around her? Not having any other children to play with? Surely she can see that things have changed.”
He shrugged. “Doesn’t seem to matter. She focuses on the Christmas holidays. Those are important to her. The rest of it seems to play itself out in her head as long as nobody interferes and she has her room.”
“But there are other physical issues. She’s a grown woman. What about menstruation? Arousal?”
He nodded. “She knows how to handle the monthly thing. Her mother was still around when that started. As to any sort of desires and such, to my knowledge she’s never exhibited any other than a crush on a teen idol from the day. No matter what her body does, in her head she’s ten. She doesn’t know any better than to think that’s just how it’s supposed to be. And… Well, we don’t really know what she sees when she looks in the mirror.”
Constance turned and stared toward the building as she breathed, “Dear God…”
“Sweetheart, in my way of thinking, God doesn’t have much of anything to do with it,” Carmichael spat. “If he does, then he’s just as big a sonofabitch as Colson was, and I’ll tell him that to his face when I get to the gates… As you can imagine, the preacher and me don’t much see eye to eye on that issue.” He paused for a second, looking at the ground thoughtfully, then hefted the bags once again and turned to go. “Let me get this stuff inside, so Merrie has her presents to open Christmas morning. It’d break my heart to disappoint her, and the past seven years I’ve been too busy to deliver ‘em when she wakes up. When I missed the first couple it caused some problems for her.”
“I understand,” Constance replied. As he started to walk toward the door, she called after him. “When you’re finished with that, do you think you can take me by the scene? I’d like to have a look at it.”
He stopped, half turned, looked up into the sky and then back down at her face. “Not really much daylight left,” he grunted. “No electric over there, and it’s boarded up, so it’s gonna be dark enough as it is. Be better if we did it tomorrow morning. Believe me, I’ve been down this road before. Nothing’s gonna show up there till Christmas Day anyway. But it’s really up to you. You’re the Fed.”
Constance thought about it for a moment. “Do you already have the house under surveillance?”
“Yep. Broderick should be out there now. Slozar’ll relieve ‘im this evening. We can drive by and check on them if you want.”
Truth is, he was correct. That visit could wait. As far as all of the previous murders went, the site was cold in almost every way imaginable. And this year, as a crime scene, it technically didn’t yet exist. She wasn’t going to learn anything stumbling around in the dark with a flashlight that wouldn’t be there for her to discover tomorrow morning.
And besides, at this point her feet really were killing her.
She nodded in agreement. “Okay, tomorrow morning then. I would feel better if we checked on the surveillance though.”
“We can do that. I assume you’re staying in town tonight?”
“I booked a room at the Greenleaf Motel, yes.”
“Good. We’ll swing by to check on Broderick, then we can suss out a time for me to pick you up in the morning. Just do yourself a favor tomorrow…”
“What’s that?”
He dipped his head toward her feet as if he’d read her mind. “Since we’re going out to do serious police work, wear a different pair of shoes. I’m a little tired of watchin’ you dance.”
“HARRY, this is Special Agent Mandalay,” Sheriff Carmichael said. He jerked a thumb toward Constance while pressing himself a bit deeper into the driver’s seat to allow for a slightly more unobstructed view. “Special Agent Mandalay, meet Deputy Harry Broderick.”
Skip had pulled up so that his driver’s side window was matched up against that of the deputy’s cruiser. Therefore, the two simply nodded at one another across the span in between.
“So… Anything?” Skip asked.
“Same ol’, same ol’,” Broderick replied.
He grunted in reply, “Yeah, figured as much.” He looked over to the passenger seat and addressed Constance. “There ya’ go. Harry’s on the job. Nothing to report, just like always. Ready to head back?”
She glanced at her watch. The package delivery and drive over here had taken a little longer than expected, but it was still only now approaching 3:30. She glanced out the window then back at the sheriff. “Actually I think maybe I’d like to get out and have a look around, if you don’t mind.”
He raised an eyebrow and nodded. “Change your mind about waiting till in the morning?”
By way of an answer she said, “It’s still light out…”
“Your call,” he replied, an audible shrug in his voice as he shifted the vehicle into gear and started it rolling forward. “Just let me get us out of the middle of the street first.”
Once they were parked, Constance unbuckled and climbed out of the patrol car. After swinging the door shut, she simply stood there for a moment, looking at the property over the top of the vehicle.
The house at 632 Evergreen Lane on the north side of Hulis Township was a simple one and one-half story bungalow, sitting on what appeared to be an average-sized lot. However, while there were other houses lining the street itself, none of them were what you could consider nearby. In fact, the closest in proximity was at best a
