MARTIN
When we pull up to the front of my mother-in-law’s home I see that the reporters have gone, but one strange car remains in the drive. I thank the officer and he offers to stay until we are ready to travel to Iowa City. He will escort us, get us there quickly and safely. Again I thank the officer and say no. We will be fine. We will get to Petra just fine. My legs feel heavy as I make my way to the front door, already they ache from the day’s exertion. My pants are dirty and I have some of Ben’s blood on my shirt collar. I try to tame my hair by pressing my fingers against its wiry texture, but know it does little good. My glasses are set crookedly on my nose and I take them off and try to bend them back into the correct position. I see a rustle at the curtains; Fielda must have heard the car pull up in front of the house. I see her peek through the window briefly, then the front door is open and she hurries to greet me. Behind her are her mother and a woman I do not know.
“Did you find her, Martin, did you find Petra?” She seizes my arm and her voice has the same hysterical tone that I heard her use with Agent Fitzgerald. I wonder what has happened to him; I have not seen or heard from him in hours.
I gather Fielda in my arms and hold her tightly to me. I feel her body sag against me and instantly I am aware of my mistake.
“She’s alive.” I cannot bring myself to say that she is fine, no; I cannot say that to my wife.
Fielda screeches with relief and joy. “Thank you, God, thank you!” she exclaims, still clutching on to me. “Thank you, Martin, thank you for finding her. Where is she? Where is she?” Fielda looks around as if Petra is off playing a few yards from us in the front yard.
I clear my throat. Tread carefully, I tell myself. Do not alarm her. “She’s at the hospital.”
“Oh, of course.” She squints her eyes at me. “She’s going to be all right, isn’t she?”
“I think she’ll be fine. You need to go to her,” I tell her.
“What do you mean, you think she’ll be fine? What happened, Martin? Let’s go, let’s get in the car and go.”
“They took her to Iowa City, to the hospital there. The medical personnel thought that the hospital in Iowa City would be the best place for her to go.”
“Iowa City? What’s going on?” Fielda steps away from me and crosses her arms in front of her. The woman I do not know makes her way toward us and rests a hand protectively on Fielda’s shoulder.
“Fielda?” the woman says. “Fielda, is everything okay?” she asks.
“I don’t know,” Fielda says in a voice too loud for the quiet of the night. The cicadas have even stopped chirping. “I don’t know,” Fielda says again. “Martin?”
I take Fielda’s hand and pull her along with me, leaving the woman behind.
“You tell me what’s happening right now!” From the porch light I can see that tears are brimming in Fielda’s eyes. I need to tell her now and I need to tell her everything.
“We found Petra at the top of the bluff. She was hurt…” I swallow hard. “She was hurt in many ways, but she was breathing. She had cuts on her head and bruises. A helicopter took her off the bluff. They have flown her to Iowa City. She’s there by now. You need to go to her now, Fielda, she needs you.”
“Is she going to die?” Fielda asks. “Is my little girl going to die?” There is steel in her voice almost daring me to tell her that death was a possibility.
“No!” I say with more conviction than I feel. “Can you drive to Iowa City on your own?”
“But why?” Fielda looks confused. “Why don’t you come with me?”
“I can’t, I need to help with the investigation,” I say, hoping that she will ask no more questions.
“Investigation? Do they have the person who did this? Who did this, Martin? Do you know?”
I nod. “I do know. You need to go now. Can you drive on your own, Fielda?”
Fielda looks at me as if she wants to ask more, but something on my face causes her to pause.
“I can take her,” the unknown woman tells me as she approaches us, and for the first time I look at her carefully.
“I’m Mary Ellen McIntire.” She holds her hand out to me and I recognize her from the television news, from when she had begged for the safe return of her daughter.
I take her hand. “I’ve heard about you, your family. I am very, very sorry.”
“I’ll drive Fielda and her mother.” She looks to Fielda to see if this is acceptable to her. Fielda nods, but is examining me carefully.
“What happened to you, Martin? Is that blood?” She points to my stained shirt.
“I’m fine. Now please go. I’ll join you as soon as I can. Tell Petra that I love her and I’ll see her soon.” I kiss Fielda on the forehead and turn to Mrs. McIntire. “Thank you for looking after my wife. I am grateful.”
“I’m glad to help. Fielda and I have become fast friends.”
“I’ll go get my purse, oh, and Snuffy,” Fielda says as she hurries into the house. Snuffy is Petra’s stuffed anteater, which she sleeps with each night.
Mary Ellen leans in close to me. “You know who did this, don’t you?”
“I think I do, yes.” I do not look her in the eye.
“He did terrible things to Petra,” she states. I notice it is not a question.
“Yes, he did.”
“You’re going after him, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am.” I now look her straight in the eye, trying to determine if she will tell Fielda, who would rail against my foolishness.
Mary Ellen McIntire and I stand in the shadows of the porch; she briefly touches my arm, but says nothing.
Fielda and her mother emerge from the house, purse and Snuffy in hand. She kisses my lips, tells me she loves me, then gets into Mrs. McIntire’s car and drives away. I stand for a long time, watching until the red glow from the car’s taillights disappears, and then I trudge up the steps, into the house, and flick off the porch light. I sit in the dark at the kitchen table, trying to gather my thoughts.
Then I stand stiffly, my muscles protesting, and I go upstairs to my mother-in-law’s extra bedroom. I open the closet door and reach high behind the photo albums and behind Mrs. Mourning’s wedding gown, the very same dress that Fielda wore for our wedding. The gown is wrapped in paper and sealed in a box, tied with a blue ribbon. I stand on the tips of my toes and fumble around for the wooden box. My hand grazes the container and I am able to nudge it toward me. I pull the box down and lay it on the bed. It is not locked. I lift the top and hear the slight creak of its brass hinges. Inside is a gun. I do not know the caliber or the brand name. I have never been interested in firearms. The gun that I have set before me belonged to Fielda’s father who had passed away many years before, long before I had met her. Fielda’s mother does not know why she keeps it; guns scare her, but she cannot bring herself to give it away, and most likely has forgotten that it is up here. I take the gun out of its velvet-lined box and am surprised at its heaviness for such a small gun. One lone bullet rolls around in the box and I pull it out and hold it tightly, warming it within my sweaty palm. I glance at my watch and know that I am short on time. I need to hurry.
ANTONIA
I look at Calli as she sleeps. Her dirty face isn’t peaceful, unlined and untroubled as a seven-year-old little girl’s face should be in sleep. Deep grooves have settled in the space just above the bridge of her nose and her lips are pinched tightly. On another examining table, next to Calli, sits Ben. Dr. Higby and Molly are now tending to him, collecting more evidence. His face is a mess. I have avoided asking Ben the question that has rested on my tongue since I first glanced at him when he entered the hospital.
