The Missing

30

The girl stops in her tracks. Wide eyed, she looks from me to the ax. But only for a second. Then her gaze shifts, and she begins looking around, as if searching for something. Or checking to see if something is still there. I watch as she studies the ground nearby.

Only now do I discover that the little wooden cross at my feet isn’t the only one of its kind. At the edge of the clearing there are several more crosses, all of them made from sticks. And in front of each of them the earth and moss have been dug up and then put back in place. I’m in a forest cemetery.

The girl seems satisfied with her inspection, because a look of relief appears on her face.

“You haven’t disturbed them.”

“The graves?” I say. “Why would I disturb them?”

She gives me a long look without answering the question. I think I see shame in her expression. Then it changes again.

“So what are you doing here?”

She sounds like a landowner confronting a trespasser on her property.

“I’m looking for a cat,” I tell her. “What are you doing here?”

The girl shrugs, refusing to look me in the eye. Her long, dull black hair flutters in the breeze. On both sides of the part in her hair, the roots are blond, and in the dawn light I can see a lot of split ends. I can’t help thinking that she could use a good haircut. Some new clothes. And maybe a little mascara and lip gloss too. Then I remember my own sloppy attire, the way I’ve carelessly pinned up my hair and neglected to wash my face. Without my armor, I feel naked, vulnerable, exposed. From somewhere, the phrase The best defense is a good offense appears in my mind.

“Is this your creation? What exactly have you buried here?”

The girl gives me another of those long looks. As if she’s assessing me. I assume I’ll be found wanting and don’t expect her to answer. But this time, she does.

“I’m sure you know.”

Then she steps past me. I blink my eyes and slowly turn around. Mutely, I watch as my young namesake crouches down in front of the grave and carefully straightens the cross, getting it to stand more erect. Her words are ringing in my ears. Suddenly, everything falls into place. The girl and her scary friends. The knife with the bloodstained blade I found out on the island. The mutilated creature that lay next to it.

“The squirrel,” I gasp. “Which one belongs to the squirrel? Or did you leave it on the island?”

The girl is still leaning forward with her back to me, but over her shoulder, I see her hand shaking as she touches the cross.

“No,” she mumbles. “I didn’t leave it there.”

She gets up and stands there with her eyes fixed on the grave. Without saying a word, her whole body is telling me here. So that poor squirrel is here, in the ground, right in front of us. I swallow hard, allowing my eyes to sweep over the pitiful little row of crosses. The squirrel’s grave is the second to last. A thought is taking shape in the back of my mind, but it vanishes when the girl starts talking.

“I made the crosses myself. And sometimes I come here to… look at them. But only if no one sees me. Mostly before dawn, like now. Nobody can know. It would be…”

She falls silent and I wait, giving her the time she needs. Nobody can know. I recognize that mantra. I know that nobody usually doesn’t refer to strangers, but to the people closest to you. Family. Friends. Lovers.

“They’re just animals. That’s all. Just fur and guts. But I still can’t help… I can’t just leave them lying there afterward. I’d rather die.”

She says the last words with great emphasis. Her voice quavers with suppressed emotion, and I notice that she’s clenching her fists. Part of me wants to reach out and put my hand on her shoulder. But I don’t.

“Why do you guys do that?” I ask instead. “What makes you torture and kill an innocent animal?”

Before the girl has a chance to reply, a light goes on in my head. I picture Alex’s excited expression, see the pulsing of the blood vessel in his temple as he leans over me. I’m wearing nothing except the black silk tie. He has peeled the jacket and panties off me. That part of the role-playing is over. Now I’m lying on the double bed in the summer cabin, my wrists bound to the bedposts. Alex is caressing me, pinching my nipples. He lifts the tie from between my breasts and lets it slide through his fingers. Then he grasps the knot of the tie at my throat and slowly starts pulling. Tighter and tighter. Until my protests stop. Until my lungs are burning and I can no longer breathe. He looks into my eyes, and I know he must see the terror I’m feeling. Then he smiles. And pulls the tie a little tighter.

“Power,” I say out loud, answering my own question. “It’s all about power.”

The girl turns around and looks at me with an impassive expression.

“What do you know about it? What do you know about anything?”

At first, I’m annoyed. But my anger quickly fades, and I notice how tired I am. Exhausted. The ax slips out of my hand and falls onto the moss at my feet with a muffled thud.

The girl is walking among the graves, straightening a cross if needed, using her hand to sweep away pine needles and fallen branches. She makes her way along the row of wooden crosses until she finally comes to the grave at the end, the one next to the squirrel’s final resting place. She stands there, her back to me.

“How do you know where I live?”

She shrugs, then answers without turning around.

“It wasn’t very hard to find out. It’s easy to tell which houses are empty and which aren’t. And you told us where the cabin was.”

“What were you doing in my yard the other night? If you weren’t there for my help, that is.”

She doesn’t bother to refute my assumption. Nor does she bother to explain. Silence settles over us. Slowly, my irritation returns.

“Say something! Tell me why you were there!”

She still doesn’t answer. Angry now, I take two steps forward and grab the girl’s arm, forcing her to turn around. At first, when I see her thin face crumple, I think she’s crying. But I don’t see any tears.

“I’m sorry,” she says quietly. “Please forgive me.”

I frown and shake my head, uncomprehending.

“What am I supposed to forgive? What have you done?”

She reaches out her hand and clumsily touches the top of the wooden cross in front of her. Then she turns to me again, giving me a long look. A rushing starts up in my ears. The ground sways under my feet. My temples are pounding. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a fallen tree trunk. I stagger over to it and sink down, gripping the rough bark with both hands. The cross… The new grave…

What exactly have you buried here? I’m sure you know. Yes, I realize. I do know. And it makes me want to scream.

Smilla, sweet, lovely little Smilla. I’m so sorry.