Lost Girls

mantel above, a half-dozen trophies with figures of athletes stuck to their tops--a female tennis player tossing up a serve, a hockey player with his stick on the ice, ready for a pass. Photos of women's softball teams on the wall, McConnell's Auto Stops stenciled over their chests and McConnell himself standing behind the back row, his hands on the tallest players' shoulders and a gaseous smile on his lips. And all around these, portraits of his children in professional soft focus that I can't look at directly. A glimpse of tortoiseshell frames. Braces, white-blond braids.

''Maybe this wasn't right,'' I say, turning back to McConnell with considerable effort.

''No, no. It was right. I'm glad you're here.'' He takes a step toward the chair nearest him and rests a hand on its back but makes no further motion to sit. ''Now, you said you had some questions. Ask away, Mr. Crane.''

''Well, maybe now isn't--there's no need really.''

''No need? Wrong!'' He makes a game-show buzzer sound in his throat. ''I think there is a need.''

Standing there above me in the deathly heat of the living room of what would have once been described by bell-bottomed real estate agents as an ''executive home,'' fixed by the size of his bones and his rage, it strikes me how married McConnell looks. Neither happily nor unhappily, henpecked nor contented. Simply married in the sense of a man who could not possibly be anything else, one who assumed the obligations and privileges of matrimony as they came to him without imagining how anything could be otherwise. Though there may well be none of what would generally qualify as love in his heart, he would undoubtedly be considered a good husband by all.

''All right, okay.'' I struggle, seeing as he is prepared to wait forever for me to speak. ''For example, I was wondering how well you knew your daughter's friend, Ashley Flynn. I mean, were you aware of the kind of friendship they had, the things they did?''

''They were girls. Kids who hung out with each other. Now, if you're asking me if I ever sat down with Krystal and Ashley and had a long heart-to-heart with them about the nature of the universe, no. Maybe I should've. Maybe I should've told them to watch out for perverted teachers who want to take them for drives. But I never did. Why did I need to? This was a good town. They were good kids.'' He pauses, bends a little at the knees, allowing more light to fall across me where I sit. ''Are you saying they weren't good kids?''

''Of course not. I'm not saying anything. I guess all I'm asking is if you were aware of any reason they had which might--if you knew of any problems either of them may have had.''

''Problems?''

His face, which must normally have appeared as a generous platter of ruddy skin and heavy-lidded eyes, has gone from red to the same dusty gray as the clouds outside the window behind him.

''Just the usual things,'' I say. ''Did they have any difficulties at school? Any attempts at running away from home? You know what I mean?''

''No I don't, frankly. What would they have to run away from? I can't speak for the Flynn girl--for Ashley-- but my Krystal had a good home right here. A home her daddy worked hard for every day of that girl's life.''

He pauses now, and in the same moment a robin thuds into the sliding glass door behind him, falls to the patio, and makes its way under the gas barbecue where it flips its wings uselessly against a garden gnome. But McConnell doesn't turn, appears not to have heard a thing.

''Let me tell you something about my daughter, Mr. Crane,'' he continues, voice lowered. ''My wife and I were blessed with four children, Krystal was our youngest. We raised her in this house. She watched TV in this room, talked to her friends on the phone sitting in the chair you're sitting in right now. If we ever had a question, we prayed to God for guidance and He provided it.''

He moves now and casts a shadow over me once more.

''Problems? The only problem she ever had was Thom Tripp. And the only person I can blame is myself. Because I knew there was something wrong about the way the three of them got together every week, a grown man and two girls. What did he call it? The Literary Club. No way, I never liked the sound of that, and I told Krystal so. Told her I didn't like her spending so much time with that weirdo, coming around to the garage sometimes in that Swede car of his for a wash or a fill-up, looking out through the windshield with a dead man's face. But, oh no, she told me it was fine, nothing to worry about. It's creative. So I let her go, and that was my mistake. But I'm not a man who makes the same mistake twice, Mr. Crane.''

I'm surprised by the sudden force of a single, choking cough, and have to lean forward to swallow back the resulting lump gathered in my throat. Definitely time to go. But I've sunk too low in the chair to lift myself out. My mouth is still working, though, throwing out things before I can recognize what they are.

''What are you saying, Mr. McConnell? It sounds like--''

''A threat? Well, that's for lawyers like you to decide, isn't it?''

His body stiffens now, a towering statue that swells with his next clenched words.

''But let me tell you exactly what I am saying. No matter what you do in that courtroom, your client is going to hell. God knows he's taken my little girl from me, taken her away from her place in our house. No, sir, I promise you that man is damned to hell.''

He takes in a shuddering breath, though not from fighting back tears, but from the discipline required in restraining himself from taking two steps across the deep pile of the room's carpet and pounding a fist into my face.

''I'm sorry, Mr. McConnell,'' I find myself saying, ''but I think I should leave now.''

I lift the notepad from my lap and try to stick it back into my case but everything is spiraling away and I end up dropping both notepad and pen on the floor.

''No, no, no. Don't go just yet,'' McConnell says. ''You came here to ask your questions, and I want you to ask them. We have nothing to hide in this house. Unlike yours.''

''Is Mrs. McConnell available?''

I don't know why I ask this. Maybe to have him go summon her so I can make a dash for the door.

''Available? No, I'm afraid she's on medication from her doctor that doesn't allow her to answer questions from sick lawyers. See, Mr. Crane''--he takes a step forward and then back again, as though without the aid of the chair he clings to he would lose his balance entirely--''this house has been visited by evil. And while I don't know why, I do know who the deliveryman is.''

He licks his lips clear of bubbled spit, lifts his free hand, and waggles a thick index finger at my face.

''I give you my solemn word. If you manage to get Tripp off, I'll kill him myself.''

He releases his grip on the chair so that he can now hold both hands out before him, two fists clenched a perfect, bloodless white. But what he says next is a whisper through the airless heat.

''Hear me, now? I'll snap his neck, cut him wide open, and stick his dirty heart down his throat. Understand?''

From over his shoulder the robin flaps into the air and throws itself over the neighbor's fence.

''I understand,'' I say, and manage to rise, gulping hard to keep down the hot churnings of my stomach. I also manage to stick the pad and paper in my bag and take a step toward the front hallway without passing out. Moving fast, but McConnell easily catches up behind me and speaks at what sounds like inches from my ear.

''That's a sin, I know, to kill. But I'm only human. And God would forgive a man for bringing an end to evil, don't you think?''

I make it down the impossible length of the tiled front hallway to the door and pull it open. But before I'm out he puts his hand on my shoulder and the strength of his grip causes the muscles there to seize in startled pain. Around us the house uttering a thousand crunches and squeaks, shifting to accommodate McConnell's movement.

''You want to know something?'' he says. ''You must be a very sick man yourself, to do what you're doing.''

Something in his lowered voice and desperate grip makes me certain that his wife is listening. Has been listening all along. Sitting at the top of the stairs in her housecoat, the tranquilizers deadening her ears just enough to prevent them from catching her husband's whisper.