Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 134, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 817 & 818, September/October 2009

Candles and Windows by Brian Muir

Here with the perfect trick-or-treating tale is Brian Muir. The story is a return EQMM outing for the unnamed P.I. who’s so mysteriously drawn we have to infer even her sex. She’s named for the first time, we’ve learned, in the author’s just-completed novel. Mr. Muir works in movies. He has recently done English-language adaptations of four Jet Li martial arts films and worked with horror icon George Romero. He’s currently at work on a 3-D Garfield cartoon.

Ghoulish décor festooned homes throughout the neighborhood: jagged-toothed jack-o’-lanterns with heads aflame greeted visitors on porch steps; rag-doll witches on broomsticks took flight from rooftops; strings of pumpkin bulbs dangled from tree limbs, with skeletons and cobwebs and black spiders plump.

But the modest Cosseli home just south of Johnson Creek Boulevard sported no such décor. No fake gravestones in the yard nor Grim Reaper behind the hedge; the family in no mood to mock death, for it was as if the dark-hooded apparition really loomed over the home, curved scythe poised to strike, his blade nicked by the bones of countless victims.

Hence, the lone candle of hope flaring in a front window.

Halloween was a dry one, but cold. The air bit into your skin even before the sun went down. It had rained a few days earlier, knocking big broad leaves off trees, so thick on the sidewalks you had to kick through wet piles of them like used paper towels. If you weren’t careful you’d slip on the slick leafy coating.

The Willamette was high and sluggish and black running under the Sellwood Bridge, but the old gal hadn’t given up any secrets lately; little Cheri Cosseli’s body hadn’t washed onto the bank anywhere near Portland or downstream.

That’s why I thought there might still be a chance to find her, slim though it was. The police always tell us that after two days the chance of finding a missing child alive is slim to none. Hell, even after only a few hours the news usually isn’t good.

The lengthier the child’s absence, the more police presence tends to dwindle. It’s not their fault; they have a lot on their plate and playing the odds on a kid missing more than a few days isn’t an efficient use of man-hours.

Little Cheri had been missing almost a week; plenty of time for her body to wash ashore, if she’d been dumped there. But like I say, it hadn’t. Nor had it turned up at the morgue. So I opted to keep looking.

This was on my own time, you understand. I wasn’t working for the family; hadn’t even met them. All I knew of the Cosselis was what I’d seen on TV: a middle-class father and mother, he a produce man at Fred Meyer and she a housewife raising two children. Their son often appeared on the news with them, a spindly teen with mismatched limbs and ears like big potato chips, prone to wearing black T-shirts (his most recent had been a Freddy Krueger tee, perhaps inappropriate under the present circumstance, given Freddy was a child killer). He tried to appear tough and resilient but was unable to stanch the flow of tears as he talked to reporters about his little sister.

The Cosselis and their friends had posted fliers all over the neighborhood, east from Oaks Park and west past Reed College; south to the Clackamas County line and as far north as Powell. Hopefully a wide enough area, given that child predators often stay within their “comfort zone,” unlikely to stray until they’ve sufficiently mined the area and brought too much heat down upon themselves.

I traveled the search area using TriMet. It’s a great way to watch the sidewalks while someone else does the driving. I’d get off on different stops and walk the streets, checking alleyways behind rows of tiny homes, my long black greatcoat helping me vanish into shadow like Claude Rains unfurling his Invisible Man bandages.

I moved by dusk and well into night. Evenings were when the predator would most likely be on the hunt, with children out playing in their yards or at the parks. Prime time for one to be snatched into darkness, given that the sun dipped around six this time of year, its dwindling light playing tricks on the eye.

During my walks, I’d often see police cars cruising the streets, maybe searching for little Cheri and her abductor. More than once a black-and-white slowed as it rolled past me, the male cops inside checking out my long black hair and shapely rear under the coat.

It’s not only my vanity that allows me to believe I’m being eyeballed by the police. There have been a handful of times when I’ve run afoul of the local gendarmes. Not by breaking any laws (that they know of), but simply by doing their job when they weren’t able to.

I’d been hoping for a break in the case before Halloween because the predator who’d taken Cheri was still out there and in a few hours the sidewalks would be bursting ripe with prey, all dressed as little ghosts and ghouls. As the sun hung low over the Portland hills, momentarily breaking through charcoal clouds to bounce orange off the buildings downtown, I stopped by Rossa’s Coffee Shack for a boost.

Rossa knew what I needed and lazily poured me a Daily Brew, black, and slid it across the counter. The place was empty but for him and me. While I waited for my joe to cool, he closed the front door and flicked off the sign outside.

“Closing up early?”

“Don’t want trick-or-treaters,” he said. “They’re a pain.”

“Just put a bucket of candy bars out front. They’ll help themselves to what they need and won’t so much as say ‘boo’ to you.”

“You know what candy costs these days?”

“A real Halloween Scrooge, aren’t you, Rossa?”

He glowered, wiping the counter with a dirty rag, switching off the urns.

“Don’t be surprised if when you get here to open up in the morning you find the place has been egged and TP’ed.” I sipped the coffee. It was still too hot, but tasted good going down.

“You don’t usually stop by at night,” he said. “What gives?”

“Taking a stroll. Lending an eye to that search for the missing girl.”

He nodded grimly. “If you find the scum that took her, do me a favor and bring him in here before you take him to the cops. I’ll give him some third-degree burns in a very delicate area.”

“More than likely he’ll already be sore down there from my kicking boot.”

“Good luck.”

“I’ll need it.”

As Rossa dumped old grounds in the trash, I strolled to the far wall where he displayed his Trail Blazers memorabilia. I reached behind the long team photo of the near-championship ’99-2000 roster to check for messages. My personal post office.

I found nothing there. No pleas for help, no line on a new job, and last but not least, no tip regarding the missing Cosseli girl.

Maybe I was hoping for too much.

I took my coffee for a walk up into the Sellwood district, looking for a missing child and her abductor, the odds marking him as white, between the ages of twenty-five and fifty. Like looking for a needle in a haystack.

Strike that. At least with the aforementioned proverbial needle, the haystack is stationary and you know the needle’s in there somewhere.

But since I had no knowledge the Cosseli girl was still out there — alive, anyway — and her abductor could easily blend in tonight with myriad werewolves and aliens all swarming like ants on a cinnamon roll, that needle was looking better and better.

A high, piercing scream whirled me around. A teenaged couple dressed as Leatherface victims shot down the sidewalk, chasing a comrade down the street.

I shook my head. Even knowing it was Halloween, I hadn’t been prepared; too on edge. Lucky I had the lid on the coffee or I would’ve spilled it as I’d spun around.

By now the sun was asleep, but the sky still light enough to see a good distance, though hazy like dim TV reception. Little ones wearing capes and robes and swirling fabrics, faces covered with masks and makeup, carried paper sacks and plastic jack-o’-lanterns, being led from house to house by one parent or two, sometimes supervised by older children or babysitters.

Back in my day, we waited until full dark to go trick-or-treating. That’s what made it scary and fun. Sometimes we went out in big groups, parents watching from down the street, talking with other bored mothers and fathers, hardly keeping an eye on us at all. But those were different times. Back then, you could still play with lawn darts without causing a Congressional uproar.

Streetlights warmed, cutting through thick tree limbs and dead leaves. This middle-class suburb sometimes flirted with upper middle-class, depending what corner you turned. The homes, most of the two-story variety, were close together, separated by hedges and driveways. The two-lane streets running north-south were well-traveled enough to warrant speed bumps, but the smaller roads running east-west were often barren and dark, their tar crumbling and scarred.

It was those scarred streets I clung to; up and down, back and forth, trying to figure an angle to help me narrow the search. Polite groups of costumed children excused themselves as parents weaved them around me, on the hunt for fresh candy. The happy cry of “Trick or treeeeeat” sing-songed up and down the block.

I heard the humming engine of a large car slowing behind me, tires crunching loose pebbles. I didn’t turn to look but rather waited until it crept past; I felt the heat from its engine warming my leg. As I suspected, it was a police car, though this one was unmarked, as they say. Plain black tires, beige paint job, and at least two too many antennae bristling from the rear quarter; not as undercover as they’d like to think.

I cocked my head to glance through the passenger window. A red light perched on the dashboard, dormant. The cop behind the wheel, wearing a plain grey suit about as stylish as his car, was a good enough looking guy, I suppose, if you like blond hair, cleft chins, and perfect teeth. His smile was polite, but I wouldn’t call it flirtatious. It disappeared quickly as he kept moving, keeping a close eye on the roaming band of children crossing the street up ahead.

As I watched the car roll on, I was blindsided by a kid running full on, slamming into me, knocking the wind out of my sails. This time, I did spill the coffee.

“David! Watch where you’re going!” A young mother strode toward me with a little girl in tow.

The ten-year-old who ran into me — David — lifted a rubber gorilla mask. “Sorry.”

I tried to be patient with him as I shook burning hot coffee off my hand, “Maybe I should’ve been looking too.”

“Oh no,” said the woman, as if I were one of her little ones. “Here,” she handed me a handkerchief to wipe my hand.

“Thanks.”

“It’s better than wiping it on your coat,” she said, reaching out to feel the fabric. “That’s nice.”

I handed the handkerchief back.

She said, “These kids are a little too excited tonight. Sometimes they’re tough for me to keep a handle on, at least since my husband passed away.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. But I remember how exciting Halloween was when I was a kid. Can’t blame them for being exuberant.”

“I’m King Kong,” said David.

“Okay,” I replied, stifling my comment that a rubber mask alone does not an Eighth Wonder make.

I bent to smile at the little girl, truly cute, dressed as an angel. “Well, if he’s King Kong, does that make you Fay Wray?”

The little angel looked up at me, wide-eyed, her mother holding on to both shoulders, keeping her close.

“She’s a little overwhelmed, I think,” said the mother. “It’s sort of her first Halloween.”

The angel was maybe five; it might be the first Halloween she’d remember.

“All these ghosts and goblins are kinda scary, aren’t they, honey?” I asked.

She glanced down at her hands, picking at a bag of Skittles.

“Don’t eat your candy yet, hon,” chided her mom.

With face downcast, the angel glanced up as if apologizing to me.

“Maybe we should take her home. David?”

“Okay, Mom.” David reached out and grabbed the little girl’s hand. “Come on, Suzie.”

“...Danny,” she said as he pulled her away. A bright yellow Skittle fell out of the open bag in their wake, bouncing like a tiddly-wink on the sidewalk.

“Not too far!” the mother shouted after, grinning. “For some reason, she thinks Danny’s a better name for her brother than David. If I’d had her first I would have consulted her on it.” She touched my arm warmly. “I owe you a coffee.”

I waved it off. “Forget it.”

She smiled and turned to go.

I said, “Keep a close eye on them.”

She nodded, resolute. “I will.”

She and every other parent out here was of like mind, keeping an eye out for the Boogeyman. The real one.

I watched the trio disappear around the corner, then turned and hiked up to the intersection, tossing my now-empty coffee cup in a garbage can.

A pack of teenagers swarmed around me, old enough to be unsupervised, waiting for the light to change. Their costumes were lame: overalls or cowboy hats; one kid wore a T-shirt with a tuxedo printed on it, oh so clever. One of the girls had disheveled hair, and was draped in nothing but a burlap sack; a bag lady, I guess. Loud and obnoxious, they shoved into each other like punk fans in a mosh pit. A guy with Mickey Mouse ears bounced off my arm, jostling for space. But I didn’t give him any.

He looked at me as if I’d just teleported there from outer space.

“Oh,” he dripped with sarcasm. “Excuse me.”

His buddies tittered.

“No excuse for you, clown.”

He reacted as if I’d slapped him. Well, not really. If I’d slapped him, he’d be on his keister.

“Hey,” he said. “What’s yer problem?”

“Careful with your horsing around. You might knock somebody into traffic.”

“Whatever.”

The light changed. I hung back while the group crossed en masse. Halfway across the street, Mickey Mouse whirled around and waved a little birdy at me. His gang thought it was more hilarious than a rerun of Friends, though that’s not a tall order.

I let it slide. I had more important things to do than roust a bunch of goofs.

With a sweep of my dark coat, I turned north and kept walking.

I pulled the Cosseli girl’s Missing flyer from an inside pocket and unfolded it. Though it was still posted on stores along the main drags — Tacoma, Milwaukie, Powell — I thought it wouldn’t be a bad idea to remind people.

I showed it around, stopping parents doing their Halloween duties. I was met with sympathizing frowns and shaking heads and bewails of “Isn’t it horrible?” Many voiced the opinion that they wished the little girl home safe and sound with her parents, but the public’s hope was fading as quickly as that of the police. Parents out here clung tighter to their children, secretly thankful that it wasn’t their own son or daughter who was missing. Selfish perhaps, but all too human.

I passed nearly an hour that way, gaining nothing but new blisters on my feet.

I skirted a group of black-suited Reservoir Dogs, their sunglasses bouncing streetlights back at me as they marched toward a trio of oncoming Droogs. Crossing the street to bypass their collision, I heard a little boy screaming, “No! Let me go!”

I raced around the corner to see a familiar unmarked police car parked at the curb pointing the wrong way, the red light on the dash no longer dormant but glowing like Dracula’s eyeball. The driver’s door hung open and on the sidewalk an undercover cop in a grey suit gripped the arm of a boy no more than eight, wearing a red Superman cape. It appeared to be the same blond cop that had passed me earlier.

As the boy continued his protests, tugging to get away, the officer opened the rear door and shoved him in the backseat, little Superman bawling like he just swallowed a hunk of Kryptonite.

The cop got behind the wheel and slammed his door, a little too angry. He cranked the key to start the ignition, but as he threw it into drive, he looked up to see me blocking his way.

His eyebrows collided in the middle as he powered down his window, irked but cop-polite. “Get out of the way, ma’am.”

I have to admit, the “ma’am” tweaked me off a little. I said, “The boy doesn’t want to go with you.”

“Of course he doesn’t. Because he knows he’s in trouble.”

“Can I see some ID, officer?”

His head twirled around like Linda Blair’s. “Can you see my ID?!”

“I have a right to ask. We’ve already had one little girl go missing in this neighborhood.”

He turned off the ignition, swung the door open, and climbed out, standing half a foot over me. “I know that. I’m a police officer.”

“I just want to make sure. As a concerned citizen, of course. You have to admit, tonight would be the perfect night for a disguise, like maybe that of one of our men in blue... or in your case, grey.”

He pulled a billfold from his breast pocket, opened it to flash his shield so I could get a good look at it. Those badges can be faked, but I’ve seen enough Portland PD buzzers to know the difference. I read his ID card in the opposing flap.

“Thanks... Officer Windows.”

He snapped the billfold shut, cracking the air. He opened his coat and shoved it home.

“Now how about I see your ID, ma’am?”

“Please stop calling me ‘ma’am.’ I told you, I’m just a concerned citizen, out here looking for the missing girl.” I showed him the Cosseli girl’s flyer.

“That still doesn’t tell me who you are,” he said.

I told him my name.

He considered it a moment, nodding. “I’ve heard of you.”

He didn’t grin or glower, giving no indication of whether what he’d heard had been fair or foul.

“Well — whatever you’ve heard — you should know I’m not trying to jam you up. I just wanted to make sure the boy was okay.” I jabbed a finger at Superman in the backseat, breathing heavily after bawling so hard for the past two minutes.

“He’s going back to his dad’s place, up off Holgate. Kid was grounded, but decided to put on his cape and fly the coop.”

I nodded. “Sorry about holding you up.”

He sucked in a deep breath and waved it off. “Don’t sweat it. At least I got him before anything could happen to him. And thanks for being out here, looking for the Cosseli girl. We don’t really have the manpower.”

“I figured you guys were probably stretched thin.”

“Besides, after she’s been missing this long...”

He left the rest of the dark thought unspoken, then continued in a different vein, “Tell the truth, I’m off the clock. Don’t have any kids of my own at home — though I hope to someday — so I thought the least I could do was come out and lend a hand. Until we know for sure what happened to her.”

The car radio squawked. Windows leaned in to turn it up: “All units be advised. Child missing around six-thirty p.m., near Twenty-eighth and Colt. Female, five years old, blond, wearing a white dress and angel wings, name Daniela Dixon...”

I flashed on the little girl I’d met earlier, with her mom and brother. “Daniela... Danni...”

“What?” asked Windows.

“Her name. Danni. I thought she was saying the boy’s name — Danny — but she was saying her own. I’ve seen this girl. With a woman.”

“What time?”

“Seven... seven-thirty...”

“She’d already been snatched by then.”

“I saw her near Harold Street...” I took off running.

“Wait! I’ll give you a ride!” shouted Windows, but I was already cutting through a backyard, on my way.

I hit the next sidewalk at a full run, weaving between scattered werewolves, Frankenstein monsters, and five too many Borats. I cut the corners of two front yards, zipping down side streets. More than one car honked as I cut them off, and finally reached the corner near Harold where I’d met little Danni the angel and her abductor.

There was no sign of her. I didn’t expect there to be, but I had to start somewhere. The woman had told the boy they were taking the girl home and they’d moved off to the west.

I walked that way, keeping eyes peeled.

A few stragglers remained trick-or-treating, laughing happily a block away. Homes were mostly quiet; some jack-o’-lanterns flickered orange, others had been snuffed, their eyes black caves. Through a picture window a big-screen TV showed one of the Friday the 13th movies, little heads crowded around it.

Dead, wet leaves and sticks piled along the sidewalk like dark snowdrifts. A torn page of newspaper and a Three Musketeers wrapper crowded the base of a garbage can, as if waiting to be let in.

Something white and fluffy poked up from inside the trash: Little Danni’s angel wings, no doubt discarded by her abductor to help her blend into the crowd. Dammit.

I kept moving, quickening my pace but not too quick; I still didn’t know where I was headed. Little Danni couldn’t be far, because they were traveling on foot. Unless the woman had a car parked nearby.

I couldn’t think about that right now.

I moved in ever-widening circles like an old-school tracker, until a bright, lime-green bug on the ground caught my eye. I stepped over to it. It wasn’t a bug, but a fallen candy, maybe an M&M.

No. A Skittle.

I remembered Danni’s tiny hands tearing into that bag of Skittles.

I quickened my step. Fifteen feet down the walk I found a bright yellow Skittle, this one stomped on, flattened but still vibrant.

Not only had Danni been trying to tell me her name earlier, but now she was leaving me a trail to follow. Smart girl.

I kept moving. Found a blue one, then another green one, partially covered by a wet leaf. Leading me west-southwest.

I circled out ten feet, fifteen, then twenty. No more Skittles.

Windows rolled up next to me, the blood-red lamp on his dash still blazing. Superman was asleep in the backseat.

Windows got out. “I almost lost you. What are you doing?”

“Tell everybody she’s not wearing the angel wings anymore. The woman ditched them. But the boy’s still got the gorilla mask.”

“What boy?”

“There’s a boy with them, ten or twelve. He’s part of it. Somehow.”

“Jesus.”

“The little girl — Danni — she left me a trail. See?” I opened my palm to show him the Skittles. “But there’s no more.”

“Think the woman figured out she was dropping clues and stopped her?”

I looked around the quiet street. “Or maybe the trail ends here.”

Windows surveyed the housefronts. “That means she’s in one of these houses.”

I nodded. “The woman wouldn’t want any company. So it’ll be shut down for the night.”

We both took note of the homes with snuffed-out lanterns, TVs off, dark windows. Only a couple on either side of the street fit the bill.

Windows said, “You take the north side, I’ll take the south.”

“Let’s pound on some doors.”

I tossed the Skittles and crossed north. Stepped up to the first dark door and rapped on it. After a minute or two or three, a middle-aged guy answered in a T-shirt and pajama-bottoms.

“What is it?” he said, irritated. “I got an early morning.”

“Looking for a missing girl.” I gave him a wide grin, which seemed to cool him off. I’m good with guys that way.

“Oh,” he said, but I was already off the porch, moving three houses down.

I took time to glance across at Windows. He circled the corner of a little blue cottage, as if he’d seen something inside. He reached under his jacket and yanked a service revolver from his clip-on holster as he disappeared around back.

I crossed the street to join him, reaching under my arm to draw my own silver-plated friend. Before my boot hit the opposing sidewalk, I heard a gunshot pop like an M-80 with a short fuse.

I ran the rest of the way.

I skirted the corner of the blue cottage, ducking under low branches into a rear yard clouded with trees that blocked moon and stars. I waited for my eyes to adjust, making out a fallen form on grass as black as onyx.

Keeping an eye on the dark house, I crept to the body in the yard, knowing it had to be Windows. Flat on his back, revolver still in his fist.

I’ve read many a detective yarn where the author waxed poetic about the victim’s “staring vacant eyes,” but eyes can’t stare if there’s no one left at home to receive the images beaming to the back of the brain.

And Windows was no longer home. I suspected he had vacated through the black hole in his chest, the bloodstain shining like motor oil in the gloom.

I put two fingers to the side of his neck, purely a formality. He was gone.

I peered at the rear of the house. An errant streetlight down the block broke through the trees, gleaming dull off the back-door glass. It had a jagged hole busted through it, courtesy of a bullet fired from inside. She hadn’t even let him open the door.

I had to be careful to avoid the same fate.

Creeping up to the house, I crouched below that hole in the window. Gripping my .45 like a Baptist minister would his Bible, I shouted inside:

“That was a cop you just shot. The police will be here in minutes.”

Only silence from inside.

“Send the girl out and this will go better for you. Send Danni out.”

After a long beat, when I thought silence would again be my answer, the woman yelled: “Her name is Suzie!”

“Okay. Suzie. Just send her out, okay?”

“No one is taking my daughter. I won’t let you break up my family!”

I looked back at Windows on the grass. Cold.

“Okay,” I told her. “No one wants to hurt your family. Please, don’t shoot.”

I reached up and gripped the back doorknob. Slowly twisting it, I pulled the door open just enough to get the latch bolt free of the plate. I nudged the door slowly open with the barrel of my gun.

I leaned back against the outer wall, fully expecting another gunshot. But none came.

“I’m not a police officer... just a neighbor. We met earlier, when your boy bumped into me. You admired my coat, remember?”

More silence.

“I’m coming in, okay?”

I took a long, nervous breath, peeking around the doorjamb into the dark back porch. A washer and dryer stood dormant, a pile of dirty clothes inside a plastic laundry basket. Insulation wrapped a hot-water heater in the corner like a down coat on an old man.

Staying low, pistol at the ready, I crawled past the washer to the open kitchen door; a swath of moonlight blue across the table, a couple of bowls, a small stack of mail, and an open box of Cheerios.

I duck-walked past the refrigerator to where the kitchen opened up into the dining room or living room or whatever it was. Shapes of furniture, cabinets, an entertainment center.

“Please,” I kept my voice soft. “Send the girl out.”

I thought maybe I could hear the woman breathing somewhere in the dark.

“Well, if you’re not going to send her out, at least tell me why you took her.”

“Because she’s mine.”

Her voice was louder than I expected it to be, closer than I’d thought, hiding somewhere behind that old recliner about ten feet away.

“She looks just like me and my husband. Didn’t you see it in her face? When we met earlier tonight...?”

She trailed off.

“I thought you told me your husband was dead.”

After a long pause, she replied, “She looks just like us. David does, too.”

David. The boy. Where was he?

As if he’d been signaled, David lurched out from hiding in the space between the fridge and the wall. I turned as he swung a baseball bat at me, still wearing his King Kong mask.

I ducked, but I was already low and couldn’t go much further. The blow glanced off my shoulder and hurt like hell; I’d have a bruise in the morning like a purple grapefruit.

I shoved the kid, hard enough to cause him to trip up on his own feet and drop over backwards, landing with a whump on his rear. His mom — or whoever she was — came out from behind the recliner, face folded with concern.

“David!” she cried as she rushed to his side, a revolver still clutched in one hand.

I hopped toward her, twisting her gun out of her hand, still warm from when she’d shot Windows.

“Ow!” like a child she moaned, pulling little Kong to her breast and clutching him.

“Where’s the girl? Where’s Danni?”

“Get away from us! Leave us alone!” she spat.

I heard a thump. Looked around the dark room, listening. Then another little thump, coming from behind a ceiling-high bookcase.

I leaned my ear to the case. “Danni? Are you back there?”

After a long pause, another thump. She was back there.

I swept my fingers up the sides of the bookcase, along the shelves and underneath them. I was sure there was a Batcave switch or some other sort of nonsense hidden somewhere, but didn’t have time to look for it.

Instead I gripped the back of the shelf and heaved to get it rocking. The heavy thing creaked and moaned and went over with a great sound and fury. Wood cracked and books tumbled everywhere, fluttering open like big dead birds.

In the wall behind the case was a small hidden door, padlocked.

I leaned against it. “Danni?”

I heard the thump once again, louder now without the bookcase acting as a buffer.

“Honey, if you can, I want you to get away from the wall. Move as far as you can and get behind something, okay?”

To answer me, she thumped again, which might or might not have meant yes, or okay.

I aimed my .45 at the padlock, angled so the bullet would hopefully pass through to the floor instead of deflecting into this room or puncturing through to the next.

The shot was a loud crack in the confined space, Cyclops clapping his hands. The busted padlock clinked to the floor in pieces.

I looked back at the woman still clutching David. She scowled at me. The Kong mask lay deflated on the floor.

I yanked the small door open and bent to peer inside a hidden room lit by a lone hanging bulb, with all the amenities of a young girl’s bedroom: a tiny TV/DVD combo, a bed with fluffy pink covers, and sad, wilted dolls on a little shelf.

Danni looked up at me from near the bed, her wrists bound and a gag in her mouth. I motioned to her to come to me.

Then I saw the pink bedcovers move as another little girl, slightly older than Danni, rustled out from underneath them. She regarded me with sad eyes.

I couldn’t believe it. “Cheri? Cheri Cosseli? Is that you?”

Though she wasn’t gagged, she didn’t answer. No doubt she’d been hollering for help the past week and was tired of hollering, especially since no one had answered her before.

“It’s okay, hon. Everything’s going to be okay.”

Her brain finally remembered the proper response to relief and happiness, sent the signal through the ganglia of nerves to the muscles of the face, commanding the corners of her little mouth to turn up in a grin.

By the time the police arrived, the woman had told me her name was Jenny. Jenny Candles, her married name. The husband was not dead, but had left her some years ago because — she said — of her infertility. No doubt there were other issues at play.

After the black-and-white crew interviewed the woman, a detective arrived and let me stick around to add or subtract my two cents. With the children taken away by social services, the woman sobbed angrily as she answered his questions.

We were able to deduce that even though Mrs. Candles’ husband had left her, she was still infatuated with the idea of building a family with him, something they’d intended to do until her infertility got in the way. Finding adoption difficult for a single woman of limited means, she’d snatched David from his front yard not eight months after her husband left her. (The boy’s real name was Chris. Police were tracking down his parents, formerly of Gresham.) The boy had reminded her of her husband, looked like the kind of son they would have had together, and that was all she wrote.

Once she had David, nee Chris, brainwashed into believing she was his mother, she let a few years go by before kidnapping the Cosseli girl, who also bore a resemblance to her departed hubby. But the Cosseli girl was already too old and stubborn for the brainwashing to take. Her resistance drove Mrs. Candles to lock her away and go out in search of a replacement. She’d tried to snatch Danni tonight, a younger version of the imaginary daughter.

The detective jotted notes, clearly disgusted with the entire matter, his anger over Windows’s murder barely supressed.

Before Mrs. Candles was hauled away, he told her, “Forget prison, lady. You just wait until you get to hell.”

Calmly, she replied, “There is no hell, no heaven, no God. If God existed, he would have let me have children. No, there is no afterlife. Just this one.”

The detective could only stare at her as she was taken away. He said, to himself more than to me, “How can somebody live like that? Without hope?”

“Think about it, Detective. If there’s no hope, then there’s no grief, either.”

He stepped to the back door to peer outside, where the coroner covered Windows’s body with a sheet. “I wouldn’t mind doing with a little less grief.”

“That’s what hope is for,” I said. “To ease the pain of grief.”

That thought didn’t seem to be doing him any good.

I said, “We found the Cosseli girl. That’s something.”

He nodded, grim. “Yeah. Something.”

And he stepped out the back door to help wheel Windows’s gurney to the black van.

For at least one family in a modest home just south of Johnson Creek Boulevard, this Halloween would always be fondly remembered. As their daughter, missing for over a week and presumed dead, came home to their open arms, the family snuffed out that candle of hope shining in the window.

I realized it isn’t the candle that’s the symbol of hope, or even the flame. It’s the window, through which light can always shine.

Copyright © 2009 Brian Muir