She moans a little bit as if it hurts her even to hear my voice.
“It’s okay, Petra. You’re safe now. I won’t let him hurt you anymore.” I glance over to where my dad sits, still sleeping. Petra moans again and I pat her on the arm.
“Mommy,” she cries softly.
“You’ll see your mom soon, Petra.” I try to make her feel better. “Petra, did my dad do this to you?” No response. “Come on, Petra, you can tell me. Did my dad hurt you? Who brought you here?”
No answer. I sigh and sit back on my butt. At least she said something; she isn’t going to die this instant anyway. Petra is okay for a seven-year-old. And she is real good to Calli. I gotta give Petra some credit. It couldn’t have been easy having a kid who didn’t talk, ever, for a best friend. It didn’t seem to bother her any, though. Those two would just play like any first-graders, except that Petra’d do all the talking.
“Ben,” she’d say when she was over, “Calli and I were wondering if we could borrow your baseball glove and bat?” or “Calli’s not feeling very good, is your mom around?” It was pretty amazing, come to think of it. As long as Petra was around, I didn’t worry too much about Calli.
Those two would go off together with their heads bent toward one another, looking like they were having this serious conversation. It made me wonder sometimes if Calli just wouldn’t talk to us. Maybe she and Petra really talked all the time. I asked Petra once. I said, “Petra, has Calli ever talked to you?”
“We talk all the time,” she said all casual-like. “But not out loud. I know what she is thinking and she knows what I am thinking.”
“Weird,” I had said.
“Yeah, I guess,” she said.
“But a good kind of weird,” I said quickly. Having Petra around made my life easier and I didn’t want her to go thinking she was nuts to be Calli’s friend.
“Yeah, a good weird,” she agreed and then skipped off to where Calli was waiting for her.
It’s a mystery to me. I pat Petra on the shoulder again and she cringes at my touch. She begins crying softly and moaning again.
I look back to where Dad is, do a double take. He’s gone. I stand up real quick and look around me, spinning in a circle. Not there. He has gotten away. I feel tears burning my already sore eyes.
Then the tears really come pouring out and I can’t stop them. What if Dad got to Calli? I let her down again. I was tired of being the big brother, tired of taking the licks for everything. What should I do? Do I stay with Petra until help comes or do I go on down the bluff looking for help myself? I don’t know what to do. I am twelve years old and I shouldn’t have to make these decisions. What would Mom do? I think about that as I settle to the ground next to Petra, my back resting against a large rock. Not the Mom who was around when Dad was home, but the Mom who was there when Dad wasn’t. The Mom who single-handedly whacked down the bat that flew down our chimney one night with an umbrella, and then carried it out to the woods to get rid of it. The Mom who, when I was eight and fell out of a tree and cut my head on a rock, wrapped a towel around my bleeding head and held my hand while the doctor put five staples in my skull. She didn’t even cry or get sick. She just sat there, made me look at her, and told me it was going to be okay while they shot those staples into my head. What would that Mom do in my place? I chew on that for a while and finally decide that Mom would stay with Petra until help came. That would be the right thing to do, I could keep Petra safe. That is what I’m going to do. I will stay and hope that Calli made it down the bluff by now. But what would she do when she got there? How would she let them know where we were? I just have to trust her. She’d tell them. In her own way, she’d tell them.
DEPUTY SHERIFF LOUIS
Antonia is describing again to me Calli’s favorite spots in Willow Creek Woods, and I am writing them down in my notebook, though I don’t need to. I know these places; we both grew up here and played in these woods since we were kids. I know each hollow and gully as I know the curve of Antonia’s face. I know the trails as I have known the map that is Antonia’s skin.
My cell phone rings and I consider ignoring it, but it might be someone with info on the girls. I answer it and hear my wife on the other end.
“Loras, what are you doing?” she asks impatiently.
“Working,” I tell her, turning away from Toni and Martin.
“You weren’t even supposed to work today,” she reminds me. I don’t answer, knowing she has a lot more to say to me.
“Lou?” Toni asks, coming up behind me and placing a hand on my shoulder. “Is there news?”
“Who is that?” Christine asks. “Is that Toni Clark? Loras, what’s going on? Are you with her?”
“I’m working,” I repeat. I know I’m acting cold toward my wife. But this is serious. Two girls are missing, even if one of the girls belongs to my ex-girlfriend.
“Loras, you need to come home,” Christine’s voice is dangerously low. “You haven’t spent time with Tanner in days.”
“I can’t do that at this time,” I say, my voice professional. I could be talking to the dispatcher. Why am I acting this way? It’s as if I don’t want Toni to know I’m speaking with my own wife.
“Loras.” Christine is on the verge of tears. “You’re talking to your wife, not another deputy. I need to know what’s going on!”
“That’s just not possible at this time. I’ll contact you later.”
Christine explodes. “Dammit, Loras, knock it off! Don’t you care?” Her voice shrieks from the cell phone, and I know that Toni and Martin can hear her. They both look down, embarrassed for me. “You are throwing this marriage away!” she rants on. “You’re with her, aren’t you? You are going to fucking ruin our marriage over that sad, stupid woman who can’t keep her husband from drinking or even look after her own kids.”
I feel Toni’s hand on my arm and I look over at her, expecting her to try and yank the phone from me and give Christine hell. But she doesn’t. Instead she points toward the trees. I follow her outstretched finger and hang up on Christine without even saying goodbye.
Tearing out of the woods is Calli. Seeing the anguish fall from Antonia’s face when she realizes her daughter is coming toward us sends a burst of relief through me. I cannot stand to see Antonia in pain of any sort; she has carried around too much of her fair share anyway. Calli and Ben are Antonia’s life, even if her no-good husband doesn’t have the same priorities, his being a bottle of beer and a place to flop.
Calli is out of the woods and I see Martin looking behind Calli hopefully, searching into the hawthorne trees that edge Bobcat Trail. No one is coming behind Calli, not yet. As she stops beside me, Calli appears unharmed. She could be any seven-year-old playing a running game, but for two things. In her right hand she is holding a silver necklace with a charm in the shape of a musical note. The necklace, I know, belongs to Petra because her mother described it to me in perfect detail when she called me at four-thirty-five this morning to tell me that Petra was missing from her bedroom. As is procedure, I also got a photograph of the girl and a full description of the clothing she was wearing when she was last seen. Short blue pajamas, white underwear with yellow flowers, and of course, the necklace. Petra’s white tennis shoes were also reported missing. Martin has seen the necklace, too, and briefly collapses, but he is up quickly. In long, purposeful strides he approaches. I have seen this look before, a tortured, keening need to know brushed raggedly on the face of a desperate parent, most recently on the parents of ten- year-old Jenna McIntire.
Calli clutches at my sleeve and I stoop so as to be face-to-face with her. I expect no words; Calli hasn’t spoken for years. Perhaps she will point and lead us to Petra. Hopefully to a positive end. But she doesn’t indicate with a finger or lead me by the hand to the woods. She speaks. One word. As Antonia steps closer I see both
