I stepped in through the doorway and made my way into the kitchen. I still remember the faint smell of lavender and saw some, freshly picked sitting in a vase on the dining table. The floor creaked loudly beneath my foot and I jumped again.
“Anybody here? It’s the police.” I whispered, afraid of a reply. There was no answer, the house silent. I remember feeling relief when I realised the house had electric lights. If something had forced me to search the house by torchlight, I think I would have turned and ran. I moved to the living room, felt for the light switch and snapped it on, again, nothing but silence greeting me. The rest of the house proved the same, quiet and deserted. Fear crept into my middle at the realization that the scream had come from the shed. I ran back through the house, barged the door open with one outstretched hand and bounded down the front steps, two at a time. I could see the light burning brightly in the shed, but now saw the front door wide open. I ran, blindly sprinting toward the open door, then struck something hard and blunt with my shin, sending me sprawling into the dirt, the gun falling somewhere in front of me. My shin screamed in pain, feeling as if it was on fire. I could feel something warm on my leg, as I fumbled around in the dark, desperate to find my revolver. After what seemed like an eternity, my fingers felt the familiar cold touch of steel and I grasped it tightly. The wooden handle of my revolver slipped back into the palm of my hand as my lungs sighed with relief. I struggled to my feet, trying to stifle the pain flaring up my leg. I hobbled toward the shed again, the silence becoming more pronounced with every painful step. As I neared the door, I stopped, peeked inside and noticed a shadow slowly pendulating back and forth along the side wall. My fingers were cramping as I gripped the weapon with all my might, the fear now pulsing in my temples. I held it out in front of me, pointing it at the door and slowly crept forward.
There was a faint sobbing coming from somewhere further inside the building as I stepped through the doorway. But just as I was about to call out, to reassure the sobbing girl, my heart stopped as my panic boiled over. I finally saw what was creating the swinging shadow. Warren was dangling from a rope that was wound around his neck, hangman style. His arms hung lazily by his sides, his back towards me. There was no movement coming from him and I ran forward, calling his name. When I reached him, I grabbed one arm and swung him around with all my strength. He spun, the horror passing my face, then disappeared as he faced way from me again. He began to slowly turn back again, the rope creaking like a door straight out of a matinee horror flick. I meant to yell at him, to help me get him down and stop being stupid, but then his eyes met mine and I realized that Warren would never wake up again. There was a knife protruding from his chest, the brown wooden handle protruding out next to his policeman’s star. The blade was completely embedded to the hilt. There was a patch of blood around the handle, but it was nothing compared to the gush of blood that was still pouring from his sliced throat. His eyes hung open, staring blankly at me, the tip of his tongue jutting slightly from between his lips.
I don’t remember screaming, but Joe Kennedy would later tell me different. He came running into the shed at that moment, and I whirled around so fast, that I very nearly blew his head off. The explosion from my pistol sounded like a canon, the deafening crash reverberating around the shed like tidal waves.
“Where’s Tami?” he screamed at me, tears and snot running down his face. “Where’s my little girl?” It took me a moment to understand him, the ringing in my ears slowly abating.
“I haven’t found her yet,” I answered, then paused when the faint crying resumed from somewhere behind us. Joe looked over my shoulder, then pushed past me, running to the back of the shed, past a small tractor parked against the far wall. I called for him to wait but there was no stopping him. I followed him closely, my pistol never dropping an inch, ready to shoot anything that moved. As Joe rounded the corner and saw what was hiding behind the dividing wall, he screamed his daughter’s name.
8.
She was hanging from a rope, although not by her neck, but by her hands, both bound at the wrist and then suspended from the rafters. She was naked except for the pillowcase tied over her head. Joe was trying to cut her down with his pocket knife as I ran up behind him. I could see blood pouring down her arm. The index finger on her right hand was missing, a stump of raw raggedy flesh poking out from the bloody fountain. I removed my jacket and put it over the girl’s shoulders then helped Joe support her as the rope finally let go. He removed the pillowcase from her head and I saw that the girl was mostly all right except for a small bruise blooming next to her right eye and her missing finger.
9.
The girl
