The Weight of Silence

Alone, I entered her room, not dark and sad, as I thought it would be, but sunny and cheerful, smelling of roses, my flowers surrounded her bedside along with cards and well wishes from family and friends. The nurse left us, telling Fielda to call for her if she needed anything. Fielda would not meet my eyes. She looked thinner, smaller to me, and tired, very, very tired. But still I went to her, still I removed my jacket and shoes, and still I crawled into her small hospital bed, molding myself to her. Together there we cried, the two of us, begging each other for forgiveness and quietly, tearfully we both forgave and allowed ourselves to be forgiven.

Now ten years later, in the swelter of summer, our daughter missing, Fielda has pulled the bedcovers up around her head, and I can hear her breath in sleep, heavy and even. I touch Fielda’s shoulder before treading softly from the room and closing the door behind me. I hesitate in the hallway; I don’t quite know what to do with myself. I know I cannot stay here at my mother-in-law’s home, too far away from what is going on. I need to be near the officers, I need to be there at a moment’s notice. I had already let my daughter down once by letting her be taken from our home, hadn’t I? I would know, would I not? Someone entering my home, in the dead of night, slinking up the stairs, past my bedroom, down the hallway, to my daughter’s door, standing on its threshold, listening to the whir of the box fan, watching the rise and fall of Petra’s chest.

Here is where I must stop. I cannot imagine what could have happened beyond this point. I would know, wouldn’t I? Someone in my home, I would know.

BEN

I run until my chest is ready to explode. My face is hot with tears. I stumble over a fallen log and tear my dress shirt on a thorny branch, but still I run, down to the creek. I could tell by the way that cop looked at me, the way he talked to me, that he thought I might have hurt you, Calli. At least, he thought I knew who hurt you.

Jason Meechum, bastard. Figures he would be brought up. I could have killed him. I could have. But not really. But I was so mad, furious. It started in math class last spring. I was doing some god-awful division problem with fractions on the board and I couldn’t think. The numbers just blurred together and I couldn’t think. If I had a pencil and a piece of paper and was sitting at the kitchen table, with you swinging your feet in the chair next to me, drawing butterflies, I would have been fine. Instead, I was standing at the blackboard in front of twenty-seven other kids with a fat piece of crumbly chalk in my hand, and I couldn’t think. Jason Meechum started it all. I could hear his whiny, weasely voice.

“Retard!” he coughed, concealing his mouth behind his hand.

The other kids giggled, but said nothing. The teacher didn’t hear him, of course, and told me to keep on trying. More laughter, I could feel dozens of eyes on me, burning into my back. I glanced back over my shoulder and could see Meechum making faces and whispering, “Retard,” to me. I remember trying to swallow, but my mouth was dry. I can’t believe I did it, I really can’t. But Meechum had bothered me before, making cracks about my wino father and my stupid sister. This just topped it all off, and I snapped. I spun around, the thick chalk in my fist, and I flung it at him, as hard as I could; I’m a big kid and have a strong arm. The minute it flew from my fingers I was reaching to get it back, but it was too late. I had visions of the chalk hitting a classmate or worse yet, the teacher. But it didn’t, it hit Meechum dead center between the eyes. I heard the weird thunk as the chalk hit and saw his hands cover his face. The classroom went completely quiet and Miss Henwood sat at her desk with her mouth wide-open; I’m usually not the guy who causes problems in the classroom. Then I walked right out of the classroom and went home, like, three miles.

My mom was expecting me when I got home. She wasn’t mad or nothing. She just looked sad, and of course, that made me start bawling. She just set me on her lap like I was three, I’m sure I about crushed her, and I cried and she told me everything was going to be all right.

It wasn’t, though; we had to have a big meeting with the principal. I had to say sorry to Meechum, and I did, even though I still believe he deserved it. Meechum’s parents went on for a while, saying that I should’ve been suspended or something, but I wasn’t. Wish I was.

That next week Meechum and his buddies cornered me after school and pushed me around a bit, called Mom a whore, said she was screwing the deputy sheriff. I walked away that day, but later, when Meechum was alone I snuck up on him and wrenched his arm behind his back and told him I was gonna kill him if he ever said anything about my family again. Meechum blubbered to his mother and she called the school and the police. Another meeting was called, but I denied everything, and he couldn’t prove anything. Mrs. Meechum said something about me being just like my no-good father, and boy, did Mom hit the roof with that one. But the damage was done. Everyone looked at me a little different after that. I wasn’t the quiet one anymore.

Calli, I’d never hurt anyone. I’m not like Dad, I’m not. I’d never hurt you. I’ll find you, even if it takes all night. I’ll bring you home and then they’ll know.

CALLI

Calli slept fitfully. The ground was hard and unforgiving. Mosquitoes hovered around her exposed parts, though she had tried to tuck her legs underneath her nightgown, and they bit at her ankles and forearms.

She dreamed intermittently of flying among the branches of the trees. She felt cool air on her forehead, and the pleasant swoop in her stomach that came with flight, like the Tilt-A-Whirl at the county fair. Below her she could see the creek, cool and beckoning; she tried to will her body to fly down to the water so she could dive into it. But she could not. She continued to soar, following the crooked path of the creek. She caught a glimpse of her father’s fiery hair and her stomach lurched in fear. He was looking up at her, anger etched on his face. She quickly passed over him and saw the rabbit-eared fawn drinking at the water’s edge. Its soft eyes calmly summoned her and Calli winged down and hovered just a few feet above the deer. She reached out her hand to stroke its hide, but it darted out of her reach and into the woods. Calli tried to follow, the puff of its white tail raised in warning, her beacon. In and out of firs and buckeyes it twisted and turned. Calli concentrated to keep up. A hand snatched at her from behind and tried to grab at Calli, but only caught the hem of her nightgown. Looking over her shoulder, she could see that it was Petra who waved happily after her. Another hand clamped briefly on her arm and her mother smiled up at her. Calli’s flight slowed, but did not stop, and she momentarily spied her mother’s hurt, confused look as she flew onward. Then the wood was filled with people who were familiar to her, grabbing at her in a friendly way, like children chasing bubbles. There was Mrs. White, the school nurse, and her kindergarten teacher, and Mrs. Vega, her first-grade teacher whom she loved dearly. Mr. Wilson, the school counselor, held her opened journal, pointing at something in it, but she couldn’t see what it was. What was he pointing at? She so badly wanted to know. She tried to will her body to fly down toward Mr. Wilson and look at that journal, but she could not, she kept soaring onward. There was Mrs. Norland, Deputy Sheriff Louis, Mr. and Mrs. Gregory, Jake Moon, Lena Hill, the librarian, all there reaching out for her. She peered through the throng of people searching for Ben, but she could not find him. Now there were people grasping at her that she did not know and this was frightening to Calli. She tried to kick her feet and swim upward with her arms through the air, onward she flew, following her doe. Soon she came to a beautiful clearing. Trees circled the small green meadow. A small pond was nestled in the center and the fawn stopped for a drink. She was so thirsty, but could not pull herself down to the bank. Suddenly Ben was there. Big, strong, kind Ben. He called to her. She tried to tell him that she was thirsty, so thirsty, but no words came. He seemed to know, though, Ben always seemed to know, and he dipped his hands into the water and pulled them out, cupped full of water. Still Calli could not bring her body down to him, but he tossed the water up at her and she caught a drop on her tongue. It was cold and sweet. Calli reached out for her brother, but it was as if she was filled with helium and she kept rising, higher and higher, above the treetops. Ben quickly began disappearing, his red hair a small flag below her. She continued to travel upward. The temperature rose as she rose, until she crashed into the sun.

Calli awakened with a start, momentarily disoriented. She sat up and tried to wet her cracked lips, but her tongue was thick and heavy and held no moisture. Her dream had fled from her mind as she blinked herself awake, but was left with the comforting feeling that Ben was nearby. She stood slowly, her muscles tight, her feet sore. Downward, she decided, toward the water, and she began her slow descent down the bluff toward where she thought the creek might lay. As she walked gingerly along the path, avoiding broken twigs and jagged rocks, Calli recalled snatches of her dream and the image of the school counselor, Mr. Wilson, holding her journal, pointing at something inside of it.

At their first meeting, Mr. Wilson, a tall, thin man with bone-white hair and a long nose, invited her to sit next to him at the circular table in the guidance office. In front of them lay a black journal made with a rough raspy paper with little natural fibers poking out. The book was held together with white silky ribbon. Calli thought it was a beautiful book and longed to flip through the pages to see what was inside. Next to the journal lay a brand-new box of colored chalk, not the thick variety that came in only four colors and was used for drawing on the sidewalk, but a real artist’s set with wonderful bright, rich colors. Her fingers itched to open the package.

“Did you know, Calli,” began Mr. Wilson, “that some of the best conversations people have are not with the spoken word?” He waited, as if expecting Calli to answer.

Immediately Calli became guarded. Last year’s counselor, Mrs. Hereau, a mousy woman who only wore baggy clothes in shades of gray and tan, would wait for Calli to answer, as well. She never did, though.

“Calli, I’m not going to get you to try and talk,” Mr. Wilson said, as if reading her mind. He rubbed his long nose with one extended fingertip and looked at her straight in the eye. Mrs. Hereau never even seemed to look at Calli’s face, always talked to her while jotting notes down in a notebook. Mr. Wilson’s straightforward manner unsettled Calli a bit.

“I do want to get to know you, though,” he continued. “That’s my job, to try and get to know the students, and help them if I can.

“Oh, don’t look so suspicious, Calli,” Mr. Wilson chuckled. “Talking is overrated. Blah, blah, blah. I listen to people talking all day! Then I go home and listen to my wife talking, and my kids talking, and my dog talking…” He slid his eyes toward Calli, who wrinkled her nose and smiled at the image of Mr. Wilson listening to a black Lab or German shepherd sitting at the kitchen table, talking about its day.

“Okay, so my dog doesn’t talk, talk, but everyone else does. So this quiet will be good for me. I thought,” he said, stretching his lean legs under the table, “that we could have this journal here and write to each other. Kind of like pen pals, but without envelopes or stamps. Our conversations could be right in here.” He tapped the journal with one finger.

“What do you think, Calli? Don’t answer that. Think about it, decorate the cover, whatever. I’m just going to sit over here at my desk and work and enjoy the quiet.”Mr. Wilson smiled encouragingly, stood and went to his old oak desk in the corner of the office. He settled his long frame into a chair and tucked his legs underneath the steel-framed chair, bent his slender neck over the contents of a file folder and began to read.

Calli regarded the book in front of her. She loved to draw pictures and write stories. She could write lots of words, even though she was only in the first grade. She wrote stories about horses and fairies and cities under the ocean. She never had a pen pal, never even wrote to her father while he was away—that had never occurred to her. She couldn’t imagine that anyone would be interested in what she wrote. Everyone wanted to hear what she had to say, as if the words she said would somehow drip jewels.

She flipped open the journal. Its creamy, unlined pages were oddly welcoming. The pages contained the same flecks of fibers that were in the cover, each page uniquely flawed. She softly closed the book and her attention shifted to the chalk in front of her. Selecting a purple that held the same shimmer as the dragonflies down at Willow Creek, she held it in her fingers, admiring it. In the lower right-hand corner she slowly printed her name with great care: Calli. She glanced up at Mr. Wilson, who was still engrossed in his paperwork. Calli carefully replaced the purple chalk back into the box and wiped the excess dust from her fingers onto her jeans, leaving iridescent streaks. She pushed her chair back from the table, stood, picked up the journal and carried it over to Mr. Wilson. She held it out to him.

“Just set it over there, Calli,” he said, indicating the round table. “We’ll meet again on Thursday. Have a good day.”

Calli paused. Was that all? No “You need to speak now, Calli. You’re worrying your mother needlessly. Stop this nonsense. There is nothing wrong with you!” Just “Have a good day”?

Calli turned away from Mr. Wilson and gently laid the book on the table, gave a small breath of relief and walked out the door.

Calli spent two half-hour sessions a week with Mr. Wilson, writing and drawing pictures in her journal. Often, he would draw a picture or write back to her, only if she asked him to in writing. Her favorite pictures and writings were about his dog, named Bart. He told tales of Bart being able to open doors with his paws and the time when he was begging at the dining-room table and actually said the word hamburger in his little dog voice. Sometimes Calli would have to point at a word for Mr. Wilson to read to her, but most often she could read what he wrote on her own. She looked forward to the beginning of second grade and her meetings with Mr. Wilson. She felt safe in his quiet little room with her chalk, a sharpened pencil and her journal. Mr. Wilson had said he would keep the journal over the summer and that it would be waiting for her when school began again. She had written to him, during their second to last meeting of her first-grade year, asking him what they were going to do when the journal was filled up. He’d replied, “Get a new one, of course!” She had smiled at that.

Calli wondered what Mr. Wilson had been pointing at in her dream. Which page in the journal was he trying to show to her? She didn’t know. They had written so much in it, none of it particularly important, not to an adult anyway, except Mr. Wilson had a way of making you feel as if everything you wrote and did was important.

A ground squirrel skittered by and startled Calli. She listened for the gurgle of the creek, but heard nothing but the cicadas’ steady thrumming.

Downward, she told herself, downward is where the creek will be, with cold water and silver fish. Maybe she’d see a frog and shimmering purple dragonflies that sparkled as they skimmed the water. Downward.

DEPUTY SHERIFF LOUIS

Fitzgerald and I have gone our separate ways for the moment. Fitzgerald is focusing on getting a search dog over here, and on trying to trace the whereabouts of Griff from the GPS in his cell phone. I will be meeting with the other deputies to give and receive updates on our progress in finding Calli and Petra.

Our sheriff, Harold Motts, is getting on in years, and has taken a mostly hands-off approach to his job in the past year. He’s passed as many of his duties that he could over to me. There has even been talk that I should run for sheriff in the next election. Most of the staff have been accepting, though grudgingly, of my leadership role, but one. Deputy Logan Roper has tried to make job as a deputy sheriff hell. I figure it had more to do with Roper being a close pal of Griff Clark more than any genuine dislike that he has for me, but who knows? We’ve come to a mutual understanding. We show professional respect toward one another and communicate when we need to, but that’s all. It’s too bad, actually, but as long as our tension doesn’t interfere with the job, I can live with it.

Griff and Logan were five years ahead of Toni and me in high school. I never really knew much about them, just that they were wild and could be mean. I’m not sure how Griff and Toni were first introduced, but I suspect it was through her job as a clerk at the Gas & Go, a convenience store on Highway Ten. Toni worked there on weekends and after school. I told her I didn’t like her working in a gas station so late at night and so close to the highway; anyone could take off with her and would be well on his way without anyone knowing. Toni would just laugh and call me “cop boy.” I hated that.

By April of our senior year of high school, Toni wasn’t talking to me and was dating Griff, apparently hopelessly in love with him. I thought she was trying to make me jealous and it worked, but I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of letting her know that. I didn’t think, however, that a year later she would be married to him.

November of our senior year was when Toni and I really started talking about our future together and what we wanted. We had spent a chilly early winter morning walking through the woods. She wore an old brown barn coat that belonged to one of her brothers and a multicolored hat knit by her mother, who had died earlier that fall. She had cropped her hair short and it made her face seem even younger than her seventeen years; she had lost weight since her mother passed and she looked breakable. I was excited. She knew I wanted to go to college. Toni said she was supportive of that, but I could tell she wasn’t really. I couldn’t afford the tuition at St. Gilianus so a state college was my only option. The problem was that the University of Iowa was over a hundred miles away from Willow Creek. I had already filled out my application and had been accepted; I would leave the following August.

As I told Toni, she wouldn’t even look at me. She sat on the edge of the fallen tree we called Lone Tree Bridge because it fell across a portion of Willow Creek. Her normally unguarded face went stony as I described to her that the college wasn’t really all that far away and that I’d come to see her on holidays and on weekends. I went on to say that there was nothing stopping her from coming with me. She could enroll in classes or get a job. We could still be together.

“Everybody leaves me,” she whispered, tucking her arms into the pockets of her coat.

She meant her mother dying and her brothers moving away. It was just her and her dad in their house, and according to Toni, her dad was thinking of moving to Phoenix to be with Tim, his oldest son.

“I’m not leaving, not for good,” I told her. But she shook her head.

“You won’t come back. You’ll go to college with all these important people and important ideas. You’ll outgrow this place,” she said matter-of-factly.

“No,” I insisted. “I will never outgrow you.”

“All I’ve ever wanted was to live in a yellow house,” she said softly before she walked away, leaving me standing alone among the naked trees. I could hear crispy leaves crunching under her feet long after I couldn’t see her anymore. We tried to carry on as we always had for the next month or so, but something had changed. She would shrink from my touch, as if the feel of my hands on her hurt her somehow. She would become uncharacteristically quiet when I talked about college and a shadow came across her face whenever I tried to make love to her. I hadn’t even left yet, but she was already gone.

She broke up with me at the beginning of December and from then on, it was as if I didn’t exist. She didn’t take my phone calls, didn’t answer the door when I came over, walked right past me in the hallways at school. I finally cornered her in Willow Creek Woods. She was walking slowly, her head down, her eyes on the trail before her. It was snowing, the flakes impossibly big. I briefly considered scooping up a snowball and pelting her in the back with it. I was pretty pissed at her. But I didn’t. There was something about her walking there alone that made her seem as naked and vulnerable as the giant, leafless trees. “Toni,” I called softly to her, trying not to startle her. She whipped around, clutching her chest. On seeing me, she dropped her hands, fists tight, as if preparing for a fight. “Hey,” I said. She didn’t respond. “Can we talk?” I asked.

“There’s really nothing to talk about,” she said, her voice as cold as the air around us.

“Do you really want to do this?” I asked.

“Do what?” she asked as if she didn’t know what I was talking about.

“This!” My voice echoed through the trees. She took one step toward me and then stopped, as if coming any closer to me might make her change her mind.

“Lou,” she said firmly. “For months I watched my mother die…”

“I know,” I said. “I was there, remember?”

“No, you weren’t there. Not really. For months I watched my mother dying. There was nothing, nothing, that I could do to make her better, to make her live. Now I’m losing my dad. In a completely different way, but the minute I graduate he’s out of here. Out of Willow Creek forever. He can’t stand the thought of living here without my mother. I do not want to end up like that. Ever!” She looked at me fiercely.

“It’s not the same,” I pleaded with her.

“It’s exactly the same,” she shot back. “You’re going to leave, and that’s fine, whatever. But I’m not going to spend the rest of my life waiting for you. I spent way too much time on you as it is.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked angrily. “That I was just a waste of time?”

“It just means that I’m not going to invest one more minute in someone who isn’t going to stick around, who doesn’t love me enough to stay. Just leave me alone!” She turned away from me and moved noiselessly through the woods. I shouldn’t have done it, but I did. At that moment, I hated her. I bent down and scraped up a handful of the wet snow, forming a perfect white ball. I didn’t throw it hard, but at the last second she turned to say something else to me, and the snowball pelted her right in the face. She stood stone still for a fraction of a second and then turned and ran. I tried to follow her, to apologize, but she knew the woods better than anyone, plus she was faster than I was. I never caught up to her, never said I was sorry. Never found out what she was going to say to me before the snowball hit.

In the end, she outgrew me, or maybe I outgrew her, I guess. I knew I was starting to look like a fool. Everyone knew I loved Antonia and that she wanted nothing to do with me anymore. She married Griff that next year, while I was away at school, and had Ben soon after. I learned about Toni the way strangers learned about her, through newspaper clippings and idle gossip. We had become strangers, she and I.

I met Christine four years later and we married. She reminded me nothing of Toni, and I didn’t mean to hold that against her, but I guess I did. I’m surprised, actually, that Christine was this patient with me, especially after I brought her here to Willow Creek to live and raise a family. She never quite settled in, always felt out of place, unwelcome. It’s not her fault that the people of Willow Creek are intertwined by a common history and by blood. Maybe she doesn’t fit in because she doesn’t want to, or maybe because I don’t want her to. I don’t know. But I don’t have time to waste on this; I have to focus on the matters at hand.

As soon as I walk into the station, Officer Tucci is there, waiting for me.

“We got some info on some of the names you wanted run,” he tells me. “There’s not much. Mariah Burton, the babysitter, is completely clean. Chad Wagner, one of the students, was arrested when he was in high school for underage drinking. Got a hold of him and he’s home visiting his mom and dad in Winner. Nothing’s come up on this Lucky Thompson, but we can’t contact him. He isn’t at home or he isn’t answering his phone. The men from the furniture store are accounted for and are being interviewed. We’re also checking on all the teachers at the girls’ school. Calli spent a lot of time with the school counselor, a Charles Wilson. We haven’t been able to contact him, either. Only other red flag was on Sam Garfield. He teaches at St. Gilianus. Been here for about three years. Before that he was at another college in Ohio. Left under a cloud. Had an affair with a student.

“Oh, and Antonia Clark called about twenty minutes ago,” Tucci says. “She says she’s found footprints that look like Calli’s, and a man’s footprints, too. She was very upset, crying and carrying on. Couldn’t make much sense of her after that.”

“What did you tell her?” I ask.

“Told her I would let you know as soon as I could. She said she wanted to talk to you. Had to talk to you. I tried to explain to her that you weren’t available at a second’s notice.” Tucci sounds irritated. “That you’re a busy man.”

“Who’s over there now?” I ask, already heading back out the door.

“Logan Roper,” he says.

“Great,” I mutter under my breath.

“Well, he was there and available,” Tucci blusters, sounding confused. “Shouldn’t he be the one?”

“That’s fine,” I say regretfully. “I just want to be made aware of any developments in this case. Call me no matter what from here on out.”

“Do you think it’s like that McIntire girl?” he asks.

“I don’t know. But that outcome is the one we want to avoid.” I pause at the double doors. “Is there anything else I need to know before I head on back to the Clark place?”

“Actually, yes. Channel Four’s been calling all morning asking about the missing girls. They want a statement. And Mrs. McIntire called twice. She wants you to call her back. Wants to know if she can be any help to the families of the missing girls. Says she’s driving over this afternoon.”

“Dear Lord,” I mumble. “Get me Fitzgerald. We need to get an official statement written up for the press. When was the last time you spoke with Mrs. McIntire?”

“About forty minutes ago, I guess. She should be here anytime now.”

I retreat to my desk. I’d have to see about Toni later. For now, I had to trust my department, especially Roper, to do what they were trained to do. I quickly jot down a rough copy of a statement that could hopefully satisfy the press, and my phone rings. “Deputy Sheriff Louis speaking,” I say.

“Yeah, Louis,” Fitzgerald begins, “I just got word about the footprints at the Clark house. The state crime lab should be pulling up there momentarily. Who do you got over there?”

“Officer by the name of Logan Roper. Should be fine, except…” I hesitate.

“Go ahead. Say it. Something’s bothering you,” Fitzgerald prods.

“He’s a decent cop, but he’s also great pals with Griff Clark. Conflict of interest, maybe,” I say. Like I was one to talk, but I didn’t trust Griff and I didn’t quite trust his buddies, either.

“I see what you mean,” says Fitzgerald. “Pair him up with someone you completely trust. How ’bout you?”

“Well,” I begin, “there could be a bit of a problem with that, as well.”

Better to get it all out now, Toni and my history together. Shouldn’t matter, but it does. I settle in to tell Fitzgerald all about it when I hear a soft clearing of the throat, and at my desk I see the tired, sad face of Mrs. McIntire.

“Hey,” I say to Fitzgerald. “Let me call you back.”

We disconnect and I face the woman I had hoped not to see again until we had the man who destroyed her life and lives of her family members, the woman whose battered, abused daughter was found dead in a woody area ten miles from her home on the other side of the county. The woman who I had to help pick up off the floor of the morgue after she identified the body as her Jenna’s, and the woman who cursed me last time she talked to me for having to bury her daughter without knowing who had done this to her.

“I want to help,” she says simply.

I offer her a chair and try to figure out the best way to tell her that the last thing the Gregory and Clark families want is any sort of reminder that their daughters could be dead.

MARTIN

I can’t sit around and wait. I tell Fielda’s mother that I am going to check on the investigation and I drive back toward my home. I park on the shoulder of Timber Ridge Road. Something is going on at the Clark house. A flurry of activity. Several police cars drive past and turn down the Clarks’ lane. My heart quickens and for a moment I think that I am having a heart attack, but I do not collapse, though I feel a heart attack would be preferable to what is going through my mind right now.

The sun is bearing down more ferociously now, if that is possible. The car thermometer reads ninety-nine degrees, and that does not even include the heat index. I step from my car and make my way toward the Clark house.

The woods and this quiet, uneventful neighborhood were what brought Fielda and me to our home. We like the fact that, while we have neighbors, there are only four close by. The Olson and Connolly families live to our right and the Clarks and old Mrs. Norland are on the left. One hundred yards separate each of our homes, so we are close enough to call each other neighbor but far away enough for privacy’s sake. We never let Petra visit the Clark house when Griff was home from wherever he works, the Alaska pipeline, I believe. We don’t tell Petra that Griff is the reason she cannot go over there at times; we simply say that Calli has so little time with her father that we must not disturb their family time. Petra accepts this good-naturedly, and I do not believe she knows of Griff’s illness. Calli certainly never speaks of it.

On the other side of Timber Ridge is another line of trees, not the forest that lies behind our homes, but a high bluff that separates us from the rest of Willow Creek. Many miles down Timber Ridge a few other homes are situated in much the same manner, neighbors here and there with backyards fading into the forest. My feet crunch on the grass, burned yellow from the sun and lack of rain. From a distance, I see some officers speaking with Antonia in her front yard. She is pointing and gesturing, but I cannot see her face.

I see a van speed past and turn down the Clarks’ drive. It is a television van. I can’t quite make out the call letters, and they are obviously in a great hurry. Again my heart flutters and I quicken my step. I decide to cut through the back of our yards to hopefully avoid any reporters or cameras. Antonia, too, sees the media van and hurries into her home while the officers stride toward the vehicle, arms waving, ordering the driver to stop. I run a football field’s length to the Clarks’ back door and a police officer stops me short. I am covered with sweat and I bend over to try and catch my breath. Why so many police officers, I wonder.

“Sir,” the officer addresses me, “you are not supposed to be here. This is a crime scene.”

“I’m Martin Gregory,” I explain as another police officer steps past me and begins unwinding yellow crime scene tape and attaching one end to a concrete birdbath settled among Antonia’s garden. “What’s going on?” I ask.

“Martin Gregory?” the officer asks.

“Petra Gregory’s father,” I say impatiently.

“Uh, yes, sir. I’m sorry. Please step toward the front of the house.”

“What’s going on?” I repeat. “Did you find something?”

“I think I should let Agent Fitzgerald speak with you,” he says over his shoulder as he walks into the house. “Please stay here.”

I ignore his direction and follow him into the house. “Antonia,” I call out. She is sitting on her couch, her face in her hands. “Antonia, what’s going on? Did something happen? Did you find something out?” My voice is trembling.

“Footprints,” Antonia says, shaking. “We think we found Calli’s footprints and a man’s.”

“What about Petra? Did you find some footprints that may be hers?” I ask.

Agent Fitzgerald speaks up, I had not even seen him in the corner of the room, speaking with another man who could have been a policeman, but was dressed in everyday clothes. “Mr. Gregory, I’m glad you’re here.” He reaches out his hand to shake mine, and I wipe my sweaty palm on my slacks before I accept his.

“What is going on?” I ask yet again. No one is really listening to me.

“Please, come sit down,” Agent Fitzgerald says as if this is his own living room.

I sit.

“Mr. Gregory, Mrs. Clark has noticed a child’s footprints, along with an adult male’s shoe prints. They could have been there for quite some time. As you know, it hasn’t rained for a few weeks. We’re concerned because it appears, from the impressions in the dirt, that there was a struggle between the adult and the child. We are investigating this. We will also be checking more thoroughly around your home, as well. At this point, however, there appears to be only one set of child’s footprints.” Agent Fitzgerald pauses, letting this information soak into me, then continues. “We’ve called in a crime scene unit from Des Moines. They’ll be here shortly. The crime lab will be doing a thorough search of this yard and of your yard, as well, to see if any other footprints or evidence can be found.

“The media has arrived,” Fitzgerald announces. “This is a good thing for you and Mrs. Clark, although it makes things somewhat more difficult for us logistically. We don’t want anyone getting in the way of us doing our job.”

“I need to go tell Fielda what is going on. What should I say to her?” I ask.

“Tell her the truth. You can’t hide anything from her during this. You two need to stick together and be strong. But I have to insist that you stay away from your home.” To Antonia he says, “Mrs. Clark, we need you to also stay away from your home. This is now a crime scene. Do you have anyone with whom you can stay?”

Toni looks dazed. “I think…I suppose Mrs. Norland’s house—over there.” She motions weakly toward our neighbor’s home.

“Good. If the reporters ask you questions, tell them you will be speaking with them in about…” Fitzgerald checks his watch “…one hour. Will that give you enough time to gather your thoughts and speak with Mrs. Gregory?”

I nod, though, in fact, I have no idea if I will be ready or not.

“You and Mrs. Gregory and Mrs. Clark will speak first. Then I will give the press a brief overview of the status of the investigation and answer any questions that may be asked. Okay?”

I nod again and stand. “I’ll go and get Fielda,” I say resignedly.

All at once there is a commotion outside, a series of shouts, not in anger. The press, perhaps. Agent Fitzgerald moves quickly to the front of the house.

“Mr. Gregory, you better get out here,” he instructs. “Damn press,” he mutters.

I rush to his side and see what concerned him so. I see Fielda emerging from her mother’s car, walking dazedly down the Clarks’ lane. A lone reporter and cameraman begin to press in around her, and she looks so confused. Her eyes dart anxiously around for help and I fly out of the house and run to her side.

“Are you related to one of the missing girls?” the reporter asks. “What do you know about the evidence that was found in the backyard?”

Fielda looks at me desperately. Her flowered sundress is wrinkled, her hair is flattened on one side, disheveled, her mascara is smudged beneath her eyes and one cheek bears a slight imprint left behind from the bed linens.

“We have reports that the mother of Jenna McIntire is in town. Have you met with Mary Ellen McIntire? Has she given you any advice on how to handle this?” The reporter, a serious woman in a red suit, thrusts a Channel Four microphone under her chin.

Fielda goes rigid and she gapes up at me. For one horrible moment I think she will faint. Her eyes briefly roll back in her head, but I wrap my arms firmly around her shoulders and hold her close to me. She steadies and I lead her away from Antonia’s house. Antonia follows close behind us. Agent Fitzgerald steps forward and introduces himself to the reporter.

Fielda takes several deep breaths. “I’m fine, Martin. Tell me what’s going on. I can handle this.”

I must look doubtful, because she gives me a steely glare. “Martin, I am fine. I promise. I need to be fine if I am going to be any help to Petra. Tell me what is going on so we can figure out what to do next.”

BEN

Calli, remember the time I slept in a tree? The huge climbing tree just past Willow Wallow? I was nine and so you must have been four, not talking anymore. I was just so sick of everyone trying to get you to talk. That’s all Mom cared about anymore, getting you to say something, anything.

She’d sit you at the kitchen table and say things like, “Do you want some ice cream, Calli?”

You’d nod your head. I mean, what kid wouldn’t want ice cream at nine-thirty on a Tuesday morning?

“Say please, Calli,” Mom would tell you, “and you can have some yummy ice cream!” She’d talk in this high, annoying voice, like she was talking to a baby, trying to feed it crappy mashed up sweet potatoes or something.

‘Course, you never said anything back to her. But Mom would try forever. The ice cream would get all soupy and warm, and she’d still be sitting at the table, trying to get you to eat it, when all you really wanted to do was go watch Sesame Street.

In the end, you wouldn’t say anything and Mom would give you a fresh bowl of ice cream to eat in front of the TV anyway. So it wasn’t much of an incentive, if you ask me. After one or two times of that, even a four-year-old is smart enough to figure out that if you wait long enough you’ll get the ice cream.

One day I just had enough. I was sick of sitting there watching Mom trying to bribe you into talking, when even I knew it wasn’t gonna happen. Mom pulled the ice cream out of the fridge and reached up into a cupboard for the sugar cones.

Oooh, I thought, she’s pulling out the sugar cones, big-time bribes today. Mom started as she usually did. “Do you want some ice cream, Calli? Hmm, what do we have here? Tin Roof Sundae! Your favorite, Calli!”

“How do you know?” I asked. I couldn’t help it.

“What?” Mom asked. She was digging into the ice cream container with the ice cream scoop.

“How do you know her favorite is still Tin Roof Sundae?” I asked, and Mom looked at me kind of confused-like.

“I just know,” she answered. “Look, Calli, sugar cones!”

“She doesn’t like the peanuts in it anymore. She always eats around them,” I said.

“Ben, go play,” Mom said, kind of snotty-like, I thought.

“No, this is stupid,” I said loudly, surprising myself.

“Ben, go play,” Mom said again, like she meant business.

“No. Calli can’t talk, she can’t do it! No matter how much ice cream you give her, or candy or pop, she isn’t gonna say anything. She can’t talk!” I shouted.

“You be quiet, Ben,” Mom said real soft.

“No!” I said, looking her in the eye, just daring her to make me. “You wanna know why she can’t talk, I’d go talk to Dad.” I remember looking around me to see if maybe he could hear, even though I knew he was traveling.

“Ben, stop it!” Mom shouted back, her chin trembling.

“No!” I grabbed the ice cream scoop out of her hand and walked to the back door, opened it and flung it out into the yard. I don’t know why, it just seemed like the right thing to do at the time.

The whole time, Calli, you just sat there, with your big eyes, all scared. Then, when the yelling started, you put your hands over your ears and closed your eyes.

For a minute, I thought Mom was going to hit me. She had that same look in her eyes that Dad gets.

I yelled, “Go ahead, hit me! You’re turning into Dad anyway. A big bully, trying to make people do what you want them to do, no matter what!”

I ran and ran and ran. Kinda like what I did today. Not so brave, huh? I spent the night in that old tree down by Willow Wallow. You and Mom came looking for me and I sat on my branch all quiet, looking down at you two, thinking that you didn’t see me. But I caught you looking up at me, you gave me a little wave and I waved back. Mom must have figured out where I was because later on she came back with a paper sack full of sandwiches and some pop.

She set it at the bottom of the tree and said to you, “I’ll just set this here for Ben, Calli, so if he gets hungry he’ll have a little something to eat.”

I spent all day and night in that tree. I came down only to grab the bag of food and to go pee. You and Mom came back to check on me a bunch of times that day, and I was just sure Mom was going to try and make me come down. But she didn’t, she just lay an old pillow and blanket down on the ground under the tree.

I slept in that old tree and climbed down the next morning all stiff and sore, but I did it. Mom didn’t get mad like I thought she would. She didn’t say a word about the whole thing. She stopped trying to bribe you into talking with ice cream, though. She never did that again. Oh, we had ice cream, but it was never Tin Roof Sundae and it never came with a “Say please, Calli.”

Calli, if we get you home safe today, I’ll buy you the biggest ice cream sundae, without nuts, that I can buy with my paper route money.

CALLI

Calli walked slowly down the trail. It opened up to a golden meadow on either side. Dainty Queen Anne’s lace waved at her. She had never been this far before, but the open sky made her feel safer. There were fewer shadows and hidden figures behind trees. Orange tiger lilies framed the trail, as did wilting purple coneflowers.

Petra always called them purple daisies and would pick one from a ditch in front of her home and tuck it behind her ear and then gather armfuls of flowers. She’d plan intricate weddings with dolls and stuffed animals. Once when one of her father’s students, a man named Lucky, stopped by the house this summer with his dog, Sergeant, Petra and Calli had hurriedly designed invitations for the wedding.

Please join us to celebrate wedded bliss between

Gee Wilikers Gregory

And

Sergeant Thompson

This afternoon in the backyard

Gee Wilikers was Calli’s stuffed Yorkshire terrier. Calli slipped black-eyed Susans into Sergeant’s red collar and had woven crisp white daisies into chains for Gee Wilikers, Calli, and Petra to wear as crowns. Petra presided over the ceremony and Calli was the flower girl. Lucky, Martin, Fielda and Antonia were all guests and sat in lawn chairs in the backyard. Ben wanted nothing to do with all that business.

Petra hummed the wedding march as Calli walked Sergeant and Gee Wilikers down the makeshift aisle, an old lace table runner. Lucky pretended to cry with happiness, wrapped his arm around Petra, drawing her close to him, declaring the wedding “Just beautiful!” Antonia took pictures and Petra’s mother served lemon sherbet ice cream and Kool-Aid.

She remembered playing tag with Lucky and Petra. Remembered trying to climb the oak in Petra’s backyard, Lucky boosting her up from below and then climbing up himself. They had tossed acorns down, watching Sergeant chase after them. With Lucky’s arm steadying her, she felt no fear of falling. It was such a happy day. Calli remembered throwing her arms around Sergeant, his bushy reddish-brown fur heated by the sun. It came out in shaggy tufts and stuck to Calli’s fingers and face, sticky with ice cream.

Now sitting among the wild grasses Calli wove a chain of purple coneflowers into a wreath and set it on her head. Then she began to make another crown for Petra. Petra, she missed Petra. After Petra and Calli had become friends, Petra became her official spokesperson at school. From that day forward, Petra was Calli’s voice, her verbal communication with the world around her. Mrs. Vega, their first-grade teacher, was very accepting of this and often regarded the girls as one entity. Once, while on a field trip to Madison to visit the zoo, they stopped the school bus at a fast-food restaurant. Mrs. Vega, asking Calli what she would like to eat, looked at Petra to answer.

Petra answered with little thought. “She wants a hamburger with just mustard, French fries and a Sprite. Calli loves mustard.”

Most of the adults that Calli encountered at school were accommodating to her special needs. However, one day when Calli came to school, it was not Mrs. Vega greeting them at the classroom door, but a substitute teacher. She was a large woman, round and doughy, with a great mound of gray, curly hair and a stern, wizened face. Her name was Mrs. Hample and she had none of the good humor or patience that Mrs. Vega had. When Mrs. Hample asked each child his or her name and came to Calli, she did not respond, but just looked shyly down at her desktop.

“Her name is Calli,” Petra piped up.

Mrs. Hample looked sharply at Petra. The first hour of school passed uneventfully enough, but after the third time that Petra spoke for Calli, Mrs. Hample erupted.

“Petra, do not answer for Calli again, do you understand? I did not call on you,” she ordered in a firm voice.

“But Calli doesn’t…” Petra began, but Mrs. Hample interrupted her.

“You’re not listening to me. Now, do not speak for Calli again! If she has something that needs to be said, she can tell me herself.”

Just before recess Calli timidly approached Mrs. Hample and made the sign for bathroom. Her thumb was pushed up between her first two fingers to form the letter T for toilet and then she rotated her wrist side to side.

“What is that supposed to mean? Are you deaf?” Calli shook her head no. “My goodness, if you need to say something to me say it, Calli!” Mrs. Hample said exasperatedly.

“She’s shy. She doesn’t talk. She has to go…” Petra tried to explain, but Mrs. Hample held her hand up to stop her from speaking further.

“Petra, you may stand against the wall at recess time for not listening to me!” she barked. “And Calli, if you won’t tell me what you need, then you can just sit at your desk until you decide to do so. The rest of you, let’s line up to go out to recess.”

So while Calli sat in her desk, squeezing her legs together, Petra stood last in line while the first graders filed one at a time out the door to recess. Instead of going outdoors with the others, however, Petra snuck up the steps and down the corridor to Mr. Wilson’s office. The counselor was sitting at his desk, speaking on the phone, but when he saw the desperate look on Petra’s face he quickly hung up.

“Petra, good morning, what’s the matter?” he asked.

“It’s the substitute teacher,” Petra whispered as if afraid that Mrs. Hample would be able to hear her. “She’s real mean. I mean really mean.”

Mr. Wilson chuckled. “I know substitute teachers aren’t like your regular teachers, Petra, but you still have to listen to them.”

“I am, but it’s Calli. She’s being really mean to Calli. She won’t let her go to the bathroom.”

“What do you mean?” Mr. Wilson asked.

“I’ve been trying to help Calli, like I always do, by sayin’ stuff for her, but Mrs. Hample won’t let me. Calli tried to tell her she had to go to the bathroom, but Mrs. Hample said, ‘If you can’t tell me yourself, you can’t go!’” Petra said in a remarkable likeness of Mrs. Hample.

“Come on with me, Petra. We’ll go figure this out.”

“Nuh-uh!” Petra exclaimed. “I’m supposed to be outside, standing by the wall for recess. If she knows I told, I’m gonna be in big trouble!”

“You go on outside then and stand by the wall. I’ll go check on Calli and visit with Mrs. Hample. And Petra, you’re a good friend. Calli is lucky to have you,” Mr. Wilson told her and Petra smiled her big, toothless grin at him.

Mr. Wilson went to the classroom, looked through the window in the door and saw Calli, sitting at her desk, her head bent forward and her long hair shielding her face. He entered the room, stood beside Calli’s desk, and watched as big, fat tears plopped down, causing a wet stain to slowly spread across the brown-gray handwriting paper that lay in front of her. “Hey, Calli, ready for our appointment?” Mr. Wilson asked her in a cheerful voice. Calli looked up at him in surprise; they never met on Friday, only on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and in the late afternoons, near to the time that school ended.

“I’m sorry I’m late.” Mr. Wilson looked concernedly down at his watch. “I was stuck in a meeting. Let’s go on up to my office.” Calli stood and looked fearfully at Mrs. Hample. “I’ll bring her back in about twenty minutes, right before lunch.” He addressed his last comments to Mrs. Hample.

“She should be in a special classroom. She doesn’t talk, you know,” she said as if Calli could not hear her. “Or maybe in a behavior disorder class. She’s being obstinate, not talking like that.”

“All our students are special here, and Calli is right where she belongs. You won’t be needed for the rest of the day, Mrs. Hample. You may sign out at the office. Thank you.”

When Calli finished using the restroom, he sent her outside to play with her classmates for recess. She and Petra played hopscotch with some other children. Mrs. Hample left and never returned and Mr. Wilson was their substitute teacher for the rest of the afternoon. When she arrived home from school that day, her backpack held a note for her mother from Mr. Wilson. Calli watched carefully as her mother read the note, her face drooping more and more at each line she read. Finally, she set the letter aside and beckoned Calli to her.

“Petra’s a nice girl,” her mother whispered to her as she gathered her on her lap. Calli nodded and played with the collar on her mother’s shirt. “We have to do something nice for her, don’t you think?” Again Calli nodded. “Cookies, you think?” Antonia asked her. Calli slipped off her lap, opened the refrigerator and began pulling eggs and butter from inside.

“You remember what a good friend she’s been to you, Calli. Don’t ever forget it. Petra will need you to be just as good a friend someday, okay?”

Calli and Antonia delivered the cookies, still warm and soft, later that evening to the Gregory house. Petra’s mother and father had smiled proudly at their daughter’s kind actions on Calli’s behalf. Calli and Petra had run off into the porch to sit and eat the chocolaty cookies.

Now, in the meadow, her stomach growled in remembrance of those chocolate chip cookies as she wove a crown of flowers for her best friend. Calli felt her nose begin to burn from the harsh sun, and she headed back into the woods and its dim calm.

ANTONIA

Martin, Fielda and I huddle together. We sit on Mrs. Norland’s sofa, trying to decide what to do next. We need to talk to the press, that much is certain, but don’t know where to begin. Don’t know quite what to say. I mean, how does a parent get up in front of a camera and say to the whole world, “I’ve lost my child, please help me get her back.” How does one do that?

But it needs to be done. I hold in my hand a collection of pictures of Calli. Calli in her first-grade picture, a hesitant smile on her face, her two front teeth missing, her hair brushed and curled, staring right into the camera. Calli wearing her yellow bathing suit earlier this summer, her skin slightly pink from the sun, her hair in pigtails. Calli and Petra, just last week, sitting at the kitchen table, arms thrown around each other, heads touching.

“Let’s go,” I say, standing.

Startled, Martin and Fielda look up at me.

“We’ll figure it out as we go,” I assure them. “Come on.”

I hold on to Fielda’s hand as we approach the front door, and she holds on to Martin’s hand. We make an odd little train as we leave the house. We walk down the long lane to Timber Ridge Road to where the reporter is waiting for us. I shield my eyes from the glare of the sun and the reporter looks expectantly at us. Quiet greets us for a moment and the woman in the red suit addresses us.

“I’m sorry to hear about your daughters. My name is Katie Glass. I’m a reporter for KLRS. Could you answer a few questions for me?”

“My name is Antonia Clark,” I begin, “and this is Martin and Fielda Gregory. Our daughters, Calli and Petra, are…missing.” I hold up the photo of Calli and Petra together at the kitchen table. My hand is shaking.

Fielda squeezes my hand and says in a quiet voice, “Please help us find our girls. Please help us find our girls,” she repeats. “They are seven years old. They are best friends. They are good girls. Please, if anyone knows where they are, please tell someone.”

I look over to Martin. His eyes are closed and his chin is tucked into his chest.

“What time did you report the girls missing?” the reporter asks.

Agent Fitzgerald steps forward. “Petra Gregory was reported missing at approximately four-thirty this morning. Calli Clark, soon after. Both girls are seven years old. Petra Gregory was last seen wearing short blue pajamas. Calli Clark was last seen wearing a pink nightgown. The girls were last seen in their own homes, in their own beds.”

“Do you have any suspects?”

“We have no suspects, no persons of interest at this time,” Agent Fitzgerald explains. “However, we are trying to contact Calli’s father, Griff Clark, and his friend Roger Hogan. They left early this morning for a fishing trip and we need to let these gentlemen know of this situation. Anyone who knows where these two men are should have them contact the Jefferson County Sheriff’s Department.”

“Are the two men suspects?” Katie Glass asks.

I gasp and the Gregorys look at me in surprise.

“Griff Clark and Roger Hogan are not suspects in any manner. We just want to let Mr. Clark know that his daughter and Petra Gregory are missing.”

“Where did they go fishing?”

“Somewhere along the Mississippi, over near Julien.”

“Do you have photos of the two men?”

“We do not. They are not suspects. I repeat, they are not suspects, but they need to return to Willow Creek.”

“Is there any relationship between the missing girls and the Jenna McIntire case?” the reporter inquires. My stomach flips with dread. I hadn’t heard this connection before.

“We cannot comment on any connection between the two cases at this point,” Fitzgerald says crisply.

“Is it true that Mary Ellen McIntire, Jenna McIntire’s mother, is here in Willow Creek to give assistance to the families?”

“I am not aware of the arrival of Mrs. McIntire. That is all for now. When we have more information regarding Petra Gregory and Calli Clark, we will pass that information to you. As for now, the Gregory and Clark families, along with the Jefferson County Sheriff’s Department, would appreciate anyone with any information regarding the whereabouts of Petra Gregory and Calli Clark to please contact local authorities.”

With that, Agent Fitzgerald steps away from the microphones and heads back toward Mrs. Norland’s house. We follow behind him. Fielda had dropped my hand at the mention of Griff, though she still holds tightly to Martin’s hand.

Once we are in the privacy of the Norland home, Fielda turns on me. “What’s this about your husband leaving early this morning? Could he know something about Petra and Calli? Why isn’t he here?”

“Hold on,” I stop her, holding my hand up. “Griff knows nothing about the girls. He and Roger went fishing early this morning. They’ve been planning it for weeks.” I try to keep the anger from my voice, but fail.

“He had been drinking,” Martin says.

“What?” I ask.

“Griff had been drinking. This morning there were beer cans everywhere.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” I say, shrugging it off. “So he had a few beers. So what?” I notice Agent Fitzgerald out of the corner of my eye. He is watching us carefully.

“I’ve seen him drunk,” Martin says. “He is not exactly nice when he has been drinking.”

“That is none of your business,” I sputter.

“My daughter is missing!” Fielda yells. “My daughter is missing and you think that your husband’s drinking has nothing to do with it? Maybe, maybe not. And while we’re talking about it, what about your son? Where is he right now? He sure spent a lot of time with the girls. Kind of odd, if you ask me. A teenager hanging out with a bunch of first graders.”

“How dare you?” I shout. “Ben would never hurt the girls. Never! How dare you? You come in here, pointing fingers. How do we know that you two didn’t have something to do with this?”

“Us?” Fielda screeches. “Us? My God. You’re the one with the drunken husband and the daughter who never speaks. And why is that, do you think? Why doesn’t Calli talk? Seems to me that something really odd must be going on in your house if a perfectly healthy little girl doesn’t talk!”

“Get out,” I say softly now. “Just go.”

Agent Fitzgerald steps between us. “We need to work together on this. There is no reason that you should be pointing fingers at each other. No reason. Let us do our work here.”

“I’m sorry,” I turn to Fielda and say weakly after a moment’s silence. “I know you would never do anything to hurt the girls. I’m just…worried.”

“I’m sorry, too,” Fielda says. “And I know Ben would never hurt them. I’m so sorry. We’ll talk soon.” Fielda pats my arm and they leave.

I notice that she hadn’t said that she knew Griff wouldn’t have hurt the girls, either.

Griff has not always been the way he is now. Not at first, anyway. He always drank a lot, I knew that back when I was first dating him. I just thought it was his age, just being wild, having fun. It was exciting to be around him. I was thrilled that someone older than me would be interested in seventeen-year-old me. And he was sweet and wanted to be with me.

I was so lonely at that time. My mother had died, my brothers had left and my dad was moping around the house, missing my mother, missing my brothers. That winter of my senior year, Griff sauntered into the Gas & Go, the convenience store where I worked. He smiled at me, went back to the beer display, grabbed a case, a bag of Fritos and a Ding Dong, and set them all in front of me on the counter.

“Great supper, huh?” he asked.

“Very nutritious,” I observed as I rang up the items. “I’ll need to see an ID, for the beer.”

“Why? Don’t I look twenty-two?” Griff asked, grinning.

“Didn’t say that. I just have to check everyone’s, even if they look eighty.” I grinned back.

“You sayin’ I look eighty?”

“That’s what a diet of beer, Fritos and Ding Dongs will do to you,” I replied, trying not to laugh. God, I was so dumb.

“How old’re you? Twelve?” Griff shot back.

“Funny. No, I’m almost eighteen,” I said, straightening my shoulders, trying to appear taller, older.

“Huh, I would’ve thought maybe…” he peered at me closely “…thirteen. Fourteen, maybe, on a good day.”

“Ha, ha,” I deadpanned. I felt my face redden and hoped that I wasn’t sweating too much.

“I’m Griff Clark, by the way,” he said as he pulled his driver’s license from his wallet and laid it in front of me.

“I’m Antonia Stradensky,” I said, using my full name, hoping at least to sound older.

Griff was looking at my name tag. “Then who the hell is Toni?” he asked. “And where’d you put her?”

“I’m Toni,” I said, flustered. “I mean, you know that. Toni’s short for Antonia.” Mortified, I laid his change in his outstretched palm.

“See you later, Antonia!” Griff flashed a huge smile at me. “And let that Toni girl out of the cooler before you go home.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I’ll do that.”

Griff stopped by nearly every time I was working after that. When he didn’t, I worried, wondered if he wasn’t really interested in me. Then he’d walk in, his red hair a beacon, and my stomach would swoop and I would smile for the rest of the night.

One night in April, he finally asked me out, sort of. I was just closing up the store at midnight. It was a beautiful early-spring night and Griff was waiting out in the small parking lot as I locked the doors.

“Young girl like you shouldn’t be working out here all alone this late at night. It ain’t safe.”

“Well, good thing you’re here then,” I replied.

“Good thing. Hey, wanna go for a drive?”

I hesitated. “I better not. My dad will be waiting up for me.” This was not true. I don’t think my father had stayed up past nine since my mother died.

“How ’bout a short walk then?”

We walked; it wasn’t a short walk, though. We walked for two hours, winding ourselves around the streets of the town at least three times and found ourselves up at St. Gilianus College, among the old gothic-looking buildings.

“What do you do?” I asked.

“I do lots of things,” Griff laughed. “I eat, I sleep, I go for walks…”

“I mean for a job, what do you do?”

“Right now I’m workin’ over in Lynndale for my uncle, farm stuff. But I’m workin’ on getting a job working for the pipeline over in Alaska.”

“Oh.” A pebble of dread dropped into my stomach. “You’re moving away.”

“Maybe. Never was much to stay around for before.”

“Before what?”

“Before this kid started hangin’ around me.”

“I’m not a kid.”

“Oh, yeah? Prove it.”

And I did. There behind the field house.

Afterward, Griff was quiet, the first of his silent rages I would have to endure.

“What?” I asked. “What’s wrong?”

“Who was he?”

“What? Who?” I asked, thoroughly confused.

“Who did you date before me?” He said date as if it was a curse word.

“No one. I mean, someone, but it was nothing.”

He wrapped his fingers in my hair and held tightly, but didn’t pull. It didn’t hurt. “Stay away from him. Don’t talk to him no more.”

“I won’t. I mean, we don’t talk anymore.”

“Good.” He relaxed and smiled at me.

He walked me back to my car, kissed me good-night and sent me on my way.

We saw each other every day after that and were married that next fall.

I don’t regret my marriage. I have, after all, two amazing children. I do wonder often, however, what would have happened if I hadn’t married Griff. Would I have married someone else, Louis, maybe? Would I still live in Willow Creek or would I live by the ocean in a yellow house? But I don’t wish what I have away.

DEPUTY SHERIFF LOUIS

Mary Ellen McIntire is about the saddest woman I’ve ever seen. Deep grooves are etched into her cheeks and it’s hard to meet her puffy, weary eyes. The hurt just bores into you. I welcome her into my little domain. I wish that Fitzgerald was here, but he’s not, so I offer Mrs. McIntire a seat.

The whole Jenna McIntire affair was a complete and total tragedy. All around, every which way. Beautiful ten-year-old girl goes missing from her house in the middle of the night. No one knows why. She’d never left before. Jenna loved to play with dolls, had a whole collection of those American Girl dolls. I saw her room. Dolls everywhere, dressed in these little outfits. No sign of a break-in, no struggle. Just a little girl gone. The dad swore that he had locked the back door the night before, but it was found unlocked the next morning.

Always, always, the parents are the first suspects, it seems. Even when every indication is that it’s not so. Most missing child cases are perpetrated by a family member or someone known to the child. The most humiliating thing is for parents to know they are persons of interest, when in fact they would die, they would open their wrists, bleed slowly and painfully, do anything to bring their child home safely.

Jenna McIntire was found six days later, in a wooded area two miles from her home. There was plenty of evidence collected. Each horrible, unspeakable act on Jenna was chronicled, but still no resolution. We don’t know who did this. Why? Yeah, some sick son of a bitch. Not even sick, evil is a better word.

So now, sitting before me is Mary Ellen McIntire, daughterless. If the gossip is accurate, she and her husband are separated. She has an older boy, fourteen, I think. I ask after him.

“Jacob is doing fine, I guess,” she says. “You know teenage boys, though. Always somewhere to be, something to do. I’ll be happy when school starts. Then at least I’ll know where he’s at.”

I hear voices and the shuffle of many feet near the front door and I crane my neck to see what is going on. I see two reservists escorting a dazed, disheveled-looking man into the building. “Excuse me, Mrs. McIntire,” I say, standing. The man being brought in is tall and thin. He towers over the other officers, but looks fragile, like a brittle stick. His hair is white and he looks as if he might cry. Mary Ellen McIntire is staring at me, a look of impatience spreading across her face. She is tired of being put off, tired of having to fight for her dead daughter. I pull my eyes away from the man, sit down and return my attention to Mary Ellen.

“What brings you here to Willow Creek, Mrs. McIntire?”

“I heard,” she begins. “I heard about the missing girls. And I thought maybe I could, you know, help.”

Carefully weighing my next words, I say, “Do you think that it’s a good idea to be a part of this kind of…kind of situation, so soon?”

Mrs. McIntire swallows hard. “I think that this is just where I need to be right now. I know how they feel, the families. I know what they are going through.”

“There is really no proof, you know, that Petra’s and Calli’s disappearance has anything to do with Jenna’s.”

“I know that,” she says shortly. “I’m not here to ask about Jenna’s case. I could do that by phone, and do, and will keep on doing. I…I just keep thinking of those poor mothers, not knowing where their daughters are. It’s a horrible, horrible feeling.”

“The girls could just be off playing,” I say, though I feel certain that is not true. “They could come strolling home at any moment. You know that, don’t you? We are still very much in the initial stages of this investigation.”

“I know,” she says tiredly. “Please, please just tell them I’m available, if they would like me to sit with them, pass out fliers, call people. Anything. Please, will you tell them?”

“I will,” I promise. “Can I get you something? Coffee?”

She shakes her head no. “I have my cell phone. Do you still have my number?”

“Yes, I’ll call you. Either way, Mrs. McIntire.”

She stands and holds her hand out to me. This is her first offering to me since the whole bad business with Jenna. I take it and shake it, gratefully, and pray that these two cases are not related in any way.

CALLI

Calli pounded up the narrow, steep trail. The path was covered with jagged rocks, like makeshift stairs, her damaged feet numb with pain. She wanted to go off the trail, but forced herself not to. It would be too easy to get hopelessly lost if she were to veer away. What had caused her to retreat upward again? She wasn’t sure. She had been strolling, almost in a carefree manner, down the trail when she heard it. Just a rustle really, just a murmur of movement, but it caused her to pause. Below her, just off the path, she saw the silhouette, an indeterminate figure, too tall for an animal, maybe too tall for a human, or could it just be the lengthening of late-afternoon shadows? A spasm of fear thumped in her chest. She didn’t wait to find out, but tore back the way she had come. Up, up, but instead of taking the trail that meandered off to the right, she chose the left, a scrubby, overgrown path. She didn’t dare look over her shoulder, frightened of what she might see. She clambered upward, using her hands to pull her up the steep track, dirt and small bits of rock wedged under her ragged nails.

She figured she was almost to the top of the bluff. She pushed away the low-hanging branches that whipped her face, leaving thin, raised welts. Dusk was nearing and the terror of being in the forest at night kept her moving; she could only hear the sound of her breathing, harsh and gasping, and she prayed that he could not hear her, as well. Her steps slowed as the trail leveled out and she doubled over, hands on her knees, trying to gulp in the cooled air, the heat of the day finally beginning to falter. Sweat dripped into her eyes and she pulled her snarled hair from her face. As her breath steadied, the early-evening sounds of the forest swirled about her head—the insects droning, birds calling to each other, the scampering and chock, chock of a chipmunk chattering.

She stared in front of her and glimpsed a tiny glint of silver on the ground about ten feet away. Its shiny luster looked out of place here, too garish, just a wink among the mottled brown leaves. Still hunched over, Calli hobbled over to the spot where the shining item lay nestled and inspected it.With her pointing finger she poked at it, brushed aside the moldy-smelling leaves to reveal a delicate silver chain. She pinched the chain between two fingers and slowly began to lift it. When she had raised the length of the chain a small charm slithered off the end and landed noiselessly among the leaves. Calli dug into the pile, and retrieved the charm, a diminutive musical note; she blew away the speckles of dirt clinging to it and carefully threaded the charm back onto the broken chain.

What she saw, what she heard, and what happened next caused Calli’s chest to seize in fright. She scuttled backward into the brush and hid. Petra, Petra, Petra. She silently moaned as she closed her eyes and covered her ears and rocked back and forth on her haunches. She pictured the deer she had encountered earlier that day, in what seemed ages ago. She focused on its bright eyes and velvety ears and rocked back and forth; she imagined their silent dance until once again she was back in her own quiet room, alone.

MARTIN

Upon leaving Mrs. Norland’s home, Fielda and I stand outside our cars. I cannot believe the gall of Mrs. Clark, accusing me of harming our children when it is her husband who is the troubled one.

Fielda complains bitterly to the deputy who has the unfortunate luck of walking us to our cars.

“Why aren’t you looking into where Griff Clark is?” she asks the young officer, who must have been in his early twenties.

“Ma’am, I know the department is looking into everyone involved in this case.”

“Yes, yes,” she says impatiently. “But why haven’t you found Griff? How hard can it be to find him if he really is fishing with this Roger person?”

“I really am not able to discuss any details with you, ma’am. I’m sorry,” he says uncomfortably.

“You can’t discuss the details with me? I’m her mother, for God’s sake.” I rest my hand on Fielda’s shoulder. She brushes my hand away with irritation. “Where is Deputy Louis?” she asks. I wonder the same thing. “He, at least, has tried to keep us informed of what has been going on.”

“I think he’s meeting with someone at this time.” The officer opens the car door for Fielda.

Fielda turns to face me. “Who do you think Louis is meeting with? Do you think maybe they found Griff?”

“I’m not sure,” I answer her.

“Maybe he has a suspect. Maybe they’ve found the girls. Do you think they’ve found the girls?” Hope radiates on her face for a moment.

“I think we would have heard the moment they found Petra and Calli. I think they would have called us.” We both climb into our cars and drive back to my mother-in-law’s house. She is standing on her front step and talking to a strange man.

We park the cars and join Mrs. Mourning and the stranger.

“I was so worried about you,” Mrs. Mourning scolds. “Fielda, you should have told me you were leaving. This is Mr. Ellerbach. He’s a reporter with Channel Twelve.”

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Gregory.” The man offers her his hand. “Would you have a few moments to visit with me?”

I see Fielda hesitate and I step forward. “We’re really not quite prepared to visit with you at this time, but we’ll answer what we can.”

“Thank you. Have the police found your daughter yet?”

“No, they have not,” Fielda says. I am more than a little surprised at the forcefulness of her voice. She sounds strong, capable, determined.

“Are there any more developments in the case? Are there any suspects that you are aware of?”

“Nobody has spoken to us about suspects,” Fielda answers.

“Have you or your husband been questioned in the disappearance?”

“Of course we’ve been questioned. Petra’s our daughter.”

“Please,” I say impatiently, “no more questions. We need to focus on finding our daughter. Please go.” The gray-haired reporter thanks us for our time and begins to leave.

“Wait,” Fielda calls after. “Wait! Please keep putting her picture on the TV. Please keep talking about her. I’ll get more pictures for you,” she pleads and I see pity on the reporter’s face.

Lawrence Ellerbach quickly steps back toward us and presses something into Fielda’s hand. “Please call us if you’d like to talk more. We’ll keep the girls’ pictures on the air.”

“What did he give you?” I ask curiously after he has left.

Fielda hands me the business card. Printed in simple script was the name Lawrence Ellerbach, followed by an e-mail address and telephone number. Centered at the bottom of the card was the Channel Twelve logo. I look at it for a long moment before meeting Fielda’s eyes.

“What do you think?” she asks me, biting her lip.

“Maybe we need to talk to Louis or Agent Fitzgerald before we agree to speak with Mr. Ellerbach,” I say.

“Maybe,” she echoes me. “But maybe we should just do it. I mean, Agent Fitzgerald said to use the media. That they could be helpful. We could get Petra’s name out there.”

“And Calli’s name, too,” I remind her.

A shadow passes over Fielda’s face. “Of course Calli, too. I still think that Griff Clark has something to do with this. It’s just too convenient that he happens to be home from Alaska, and then goes on a fishing trip just when the two girls disappear. It doesn’t add up.”

“I don’t think we should do anything that the police don’t approve of, Fielda. What if we go against their wishes and something bad happens because of it?” But I can see that her lips are set in a determined line. Her mind is made up.

“Martin, what if we don’t give an interview and someone who knows something could have seen it and could have seen Petra’s picture? What if that person didn’t know to come forward? I really don’t care if it’s handy for the police to have us give an interview or not. They haven’t brought our daughter home, and this is one way that I can help.”

“If you feel so strongly, I think that you should give an interview,” I tell her as I drape my arm around her shoulder. My shirt is wet with sweat, but she does not step away. She comes closer to me and kisses my cheek.

“I do feel strongly about this, Martin.” She pauses before continuing. “You aren’t going to do the interview, are you?”

I shake my head. “I’m going to go look for Petra and Calli. This is taking too long. I’m going into the woods. I’ll call Deputy Louis and Antonia and invite them to search with me.”

I am not the most intuitive of men, as I have clearly shown through my many years on this planet. However, I do know numbers; I do know that the probability that someone known to us has abducted Petra and Calli is much higher than the possibility that a stranger has done this. I also know that Griff Clark can be a scary man. I have seen Mr. Clark many times in passing and he has always been pleasant and courteous. But I had a glimpse, albeit brief, of another side, a brilliantly poignant view of Mr. Clark one evening. It was parent-teacher conference night at the elementary school last March. The meetings were behind schedule, but I didn’t mind. It gave me the opportunity to walk around the halls of the school, to look at the children’s artwork taped to the walls, to view how other parents interacted with their children. It was a comforting scene to watch. I was not so unlike the other parents. Older, yes. I knew I looked more like Petra’s grandfather than her father, but I could see many kinds of families in those hallways. Single mothers holding their children’s hands as they received a grand tour around the building, and fathers being shepherded from classroom to classroom by beaming kindergarteners.

Petra was explaining to Fielda and me how their first-grade classroom conducted experiments on how far those little plastic sports cars, Hot Wheels, I think they are called, could travel, when we came across the Clark family huddled in a small, out-of-the-way corner of the school building. Griff Clark’s face was purple with rage as he berated Calli and Antonia.

“Do you know how goddamn embarrassing it is for me to come to these things and hear how Calli don’t talk yet?” he hissed. Calli had her head down, staring at her feet, while Antonia was trying, unsuccessfully, to hush Griff.

“Don’t shush me, Toni,” he growled, his voice not raised above a gruff whisper, but menacing still the same. He grabbed Calli under the armpit. “Look at me, Calli.” Calli looked at her father. “Are you retarded? You can talk, I know you can. You gotta stop this goddamn game and start talking.

“And you—” he turned on Antonia “—you let her get away with it. Pussyfooting around it. ‘Oh, we can’t push her, we can’t force her to talk,’” he said in a mock falsetto voice. “Bullshit!”

At that moment Calli’s eyes fell on Petra’s and I saw such a completely resigned, helpless look on Calli’s face. No embarrassment, no anger, nothing but pure acceptance. Petra gave Calli a meager, half-hearted smile and wiggled her fingers at her, then pulled me away from the sad scene.

Later, at the Mourning Glory, Lucky Thompson brought over sundaes piled high with toppings. He ruffled Petra’s hair and asked what we were celebrating.

“We are celebrating my genius daughter’s glowing conference,” I told him, and Petra blushed with pleasure.

“Why don’t you join us, Lucky?” Fielda invited.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Lucky said, looking over his shoulder. “I’ve got a lot to do.”

“Please,” Petra begged. “I’ll share my sundae with you. You made it way too big!”

“Okay, then,” Lucky said, sliding into the booth next to Petra. “How can I resist that invitation?”

I asked Petra, “Do you think it is always like that for Calli?”

Petra knew exactly to what I was referring. “When her dad is there, I think so. When he’s gone, it’s okay. Her mom is real nice,” Petra said around a spoonful of turtle sundae.

“I do not want you going over to the Clark house when her father is there. Do you understand, Petra?” I said sternly.

She nodded her head. “I know. But sometimes I feel like Calli needs me even more when her dad is home, you know? It seems too bad that I have to stay away from her then. That’s when she’s the saddest, when he’s home.” She shrugged her shoulders.

“Are you talking about Griff Clark?” Lucky asked.

Fielda nodded. “Do you know him?”

“No, not really. I’ve just seen him around, you know. When I’ve gone out with the guys. He’s a pretty rough character,” Lucky said.

“Do you think that her dad hurts her? You know, hits her when he gets mad?” Fielda asked with concern. I prayed that Petra would say no, that she did not think that Griff hit Calli and Ben or Antonia for that matter. I had visions of having to call the Department of Human Services and inform them of abuse, not an enviable position to be in.

She shrugged her shoulders again. “I don’t know. She doesn’t talk, you know. She just seems sadder when he’s home.”

“Do you feel the same way about me?” I asked Petra. “Do you feel sad when I’m around?” I made a pouting face at Petra.

“No, silly,” she responded, shaking her head and grinning. “I’m happy when you’re around.”

Lucky was looking wistfully at the three of us. I knew he hadn’t had an easy life. He always sidestepped questions about his family. He had told me a number of times how much he would one day love to have a family like mine. I told him I almost never had it myself. That if Fielda hadn’t thrown that muffin at me, I would most likely be a lonely old man. He laughed at that, but his smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“Can I have that?” Petra indicated the maraschino cherry that Lucky had pushed to the side of the sundae.

“Of course,” he answered and he scraped it up with his spoon and popped it into her open mouth. “Yeah,” Lucky said, shaking his head as if remembering something, “I wouldn’t let Petra anywhere near Griff Clark.”

I readily agreed. In that brief moment in the school corridor between Griff Clark and his family, I saw that one percent of meanness that people like him accidentally show to the world at large. It frightens me, what he could be capable of, what he may have done to my daughter. I shiver, something I think is impossible in ninety-degree weather. But then, of course, anything is possible now.

I make my way back to Mrs. Norland’s home, trying to compose the words I will need to say to Antonia and to Deputy Louis in order to convince them to accompany me into the woods.

CALLI

“Calli.” She heard the voice, calm, almost loving, but the same fear that pressed against her throat moments before returned. Griff was standing over her, gray-faced and ill-looking.

“Calli, let’s stop this nonsense. Come on over here. Let’s go home. Don’t you wanna see…” His voice trailed off as he stepped closer to Calli and he ingested the scene in front of him. First Petra’s battered head, discolored face and neck. He looked again to Calli.

“Jesus, what happened? Jesus, Calli, what happened to her?”

Calli stood silently, weighing her options. Which way to go? The deep ravine behind her, Griff in front of her, barring her passageway.

“Calli,” he barked sharply. “What happened here? Tell me!” He roughly grabbed her shoulder, but let go when he noticed something among the thistles. He bent down to retrieve it, held it in his fingers, a dirtied ripped rag, white with dainty yellow flowers.

“Jesus,” he said, looking to Petra again. His eyes traveled down her motionless form, the dirty blue pajama top, her naked bruised legs, speckled with blood.

“Jesus,” he repeated. Griff turned swiftly and retched, bitter, yellow bile spewed from his throat. He breathed in deeply, but gagged again, loud, croaking, dry heaves followed, but nothing more came forth.

Calli took this opportunity, with Griff hunched over clutching at his cramping stomach, to slide down the bluff and steal past him, but not retreating into the forest.

“Calli,” wheezed Griff. “Calli, who did this? Do you know who did this?” He absently wiped his hands with the sullied yellow-flowered rag. Realizing what he was holding, he flicked it to the ground as if it seared his hand. He stumbled over to Petra and placed a trembling hand at her wrist and then at her throat, pressing, feeling for her pulse. He shook his head.

“I can’t tell.” He fell to his knees, laid his ear to her chest, and then lightly held his finger under her nose, searching for a warm current of breath.

“Calli.” He looked toward her. “Who did this to her?”

They both heard the rustling through the trees, heavy, lumbering stomps.

“Calli! Calli!” Calli and Griff both recognized Ben’s voice as he crashed through the brush and placed himself between Griff and Calli. “Leave her alone. Get away!”

“Ben, what’re you doing here?” Griff asked, genuinely surprised.

“Get away from her!” Ben shouted again, searching around him for something to grab, a stick, a rock.

“Ben, shut up!” Griff yelled as he stood. “We need to get help up here.”

Ben’s eyes flicked to Calli, then Petra, and back to Griff. “Run, Calli,” he whispered. “That way.” He indicated the trail from which he came. “Go down, all the way down. It will lead you to Bobcat Trail. Run, Calli, don’t stop.”

“Ben, shut up,” Griff said. “You don’t know what happened here. We have to get outta here. Maybe we should carry her out,” he said, looking down at Petra. “But maybe we shouldn’t move her.” Griff bit his lip in indecision. “We can’t leave her here.” He looked up at Ben again. “You stay with her. Calli and I’ll go down the trail and get help.”

“No,” Ben said.

“What’d you say?”

“No, I’m not letting you go anywhere with Calli.”

Ben reached behind him for Calli, never taking his eyes off his father. He found Calli’s hand and pulled gently toward him so that her cheek lay against his back.

“Ben, we don’t got time for this. I think Petra’s dying. You go then and get help. I’ll stay with her.”

“No, Calli will go,” Ben said. “We stay with Petra.”

“Who made you boss?” Griff scoffed. “Who’s she gonna tell? What’ll she do, mime it? You stay. Me and Calli will go.” Griff began to walk past Ben to take hold of Calli, but Ben stepped to the side, blocking his path.

“Ben, I will knock you silly if you don’t get outta my way. This isn’t a game.” Griff made to move past Ben again, but Ben sidled in front of him.

“No, Calli’s going down to get help. I’m not leaving you alone with Petra.”

Griff blinked. “What? You think I had something to do with this?”

Ben said nothing. He stared warily at his father, his arms stretched out to the side, a wall between Griff and Calli.

“What? You really think I did this, Ben? I’m your dad.”

“I know,” Ben said, walking backward, trying to ease Calli toward the trail that would lead her downward. “Why are they even up here?” Ben asked, sweeping his arm to indicate Calli and Petra. “Why are you even up here? You never go up here.”

Griff faltered, stammered, said nothing.

“You’re here, they’re here, Petra’s hurt bad and Calli’s a mess. What am I supposed to think?”

“Don’t think, Ben. You might hurt yourself. Now get the hell outta my way. Calli, let’s go.” Griff reached around Ben and snatched Calli’s arm and began dragging her toward the trail.

“No!” Ben exclaimed. “Keep your hands offa her!” Ben shoved at Griff, who stumbled backward, caught surprised.

Ben moved quickly and swung around to Calli. He grabbed her shoulders and lowered his nose to hers. “Go, Calli, get help. I’ll take care of Petra. Run. You run as fast as you can. And you tell ’em. You tell ’em where we are.”

Calli hesitated, but Griff had recovered and was lunging back toward them. She turned and was gone.

BEN

Dad looks crazed as he gets back to his feet. What the hell have I done?

“Ben, you stupid son of a bitch. Why the hell did you do that? Now she’s gone. Once we get outta here I’m gonna beat the crap out of you.”

“I don’t care,” I say as I move to get away from him. “You’re gonna stay here with me until the police come.”

“The hell I am,” he laughs. He is always laughing at someone.

“Go ahead, laugh, I don’t care,” I say, sounding like a stupid son of a bitch.

“Stay here with her. God knows the sick fuck who did this is prob’ly still hiding behind a tree, but you stay here, and I’ll go get help,” he says.

“No, you’re not going anywhere.” I stand my ground.

“Fuck that,” Dad says and he runs at me and stiff-arms me right in the chest.

I think I shocked him by not falling over and crumpling into a little ball like a baby. I’d grown a lot this summer, gotten a lot stronger. He bounces offa me like a spring and falls backward. He looks funny, the surprise on his face. I would laugh, if the look on his face didn’t scare me to death.

“Little fucker,” he whispers as he struggles to get to his feet.

For once in my life, I think my dad looks old. Not ancient old, like an eighty-year-old man, but just tired old. Like a middle-aged man who spent too much time drinking and being mean to others, time sits on his face like some Halloween mask.

He comes at me again, this time more prepared. He swings his right arm as if to smack me in the head, but lunges at me down low, hitting me in the stomach, and lands on top of me. My air is instantly gone. I try to suck more in, but can’t and I fight wildly to get him off of me. I pound on his back, at his face, even pull his hair, I’m embarrassed to say, anything to get him away from me so I can breathe again. He tries pinning my arms down above my head but I am flailing around like a maniac and he can’t quite get a good grasp on me.

“Ben, goddammit, stop it. Hold still!” he shouts.

But I won’t. I can breathe again and it’s a few seconds before I realize that he is trying to get off of me, but I won’t let him go. He is trying to get away from me. He is trying to crawl over the top of me, but I have hold of his leg and am holding on with all my might. He stands on one leg and sorta drags me along with him a few feet, but like I said, I’m a pretty big kid and he can’t get too far. He falls backward on his butt. That is just enough to loosen my grip a bit, and he pulls his foot back and then kicks forward, hitting me smack-dab in the nose. I think we both hear it break. I don’t see stars like they always show on Saturday morning cartoons, but I think I see what looks like a few fireflies blinking at me. We both freeze for a second, I honestly don’t think he can believe he did this to me and I can’t, either, though he sure has hit me enough. Blood comes rushing outta my nose and it feels like someone pinched my nose off with pliers.

“Goddammit, Ben,” he says. “What’d you have to go and do that for?”

He means it, too; this is my fault, like I broke my own nose. I have never felt like killing something before, not even Meechum. But I feel like killing my own dad, right now in these woods. Instead I wallop him in the side of the head with my bloody fist.

“I know you think I had something to do with this, but I didn’t. I really didn’t, Ben.” He tries to reason with me as he moves to block my blows.

“I don’t believe you. I’m gonna tell, I’m gonna tell what you did to Petra and to Calli!” My hands are slick and slimy with my blood and my punches slide uselessly off him. He crawls away from me. I don’t go after him, but I stand and wipe my bloody hands on my shorts. Ruined.

“Ben,” he gasps, “you want me to go to jail? You want me to get sent away for something I didn’t do? ’Cause that’s what’ll happen. They’ll send me away, prob’ly forever.” He rubs his face; I see that his hands are shaking. “Jesus, Ben. I think Petra’s dying. We gotta get her help.”

“Calli will get help. She’s probably near the bottom now, she’ll get help up here,” I insist.

“Christ, Ben, she hasn’t talked in four fucking years! You think she’ll talk now? How’s she gonna tell what happened?”

I don’t answer him. I am too worn out and my nose hurts, but I watch him carefully through my swelling eyes.

When I was five, I remember thinking that my dad was the biggest, strongest guy around. I would follow him around the house when he was home; squeeze in next to him when he was sitting in his La-Z-Boy chair. I would watch his every move, the way he stuffed his hands into the front of his jeans when he would talk to one of his friends, the way he held his beer in his right hand and popped the top with his left. I would watch the way he would close his eyes, take big drinks of the beer, roll it around in his mouth and swallow. I was amazed at how much pleasure I would see on his face when he drank his beer, the way that all of us—Mom, baby Calli, and I—would just seem to disappear when Dad was drinking.

During the first two or three beers he would be nice and funny, even, playing tickling games and pulling Mom down onto his lap to hug her. He might play card games like Go Fish or Old Maid with me or he might hold Calli, her back on his thighs, holding her little feet singing, “Bicycle, bicycle, cruise…” as he moved her legs like she was pedaling a bike.

But after that fourth beer it started to change. Dad would pick on Mom for stupid stuff, for not hanging up his shirts just right or the kitchen floor wouldn’t be swept good enough. He’d yell at her for spending too much money on groceries and then yell at her for not making anything good to eat. He would get bored playing cards with me and quit in the middle of the game, even if he was winning. Dad just plain ignored Calli after beer number four.

Now after beer number seven he’d get all impatient and not want to be touched. When I’d try to snuggle in next to him in his chair, he’d push me away, not hard, but a person could tell he wanted to be left alone. Mom would take Calli and me upstairs to read stories. I’d get in my pajamas, I remember they were white and had these grinning little clowns holding balloons all over them. I wouldn’t tell any of my friends this, but I loved those pajamas. It was like sliding into something happy when I put those on after a bath. One time, though, after beer number seven, Dad said I looked like “a goddamn sissy” in those pajamas and that he should burn ’em. I didn’t wear them after that; I wore an old T-shirt of Dad’s to bed. But I didn’t throw the pajamas away, either. They’re still folded underneath my winter long johns in my bottom drawer. Personally, I don’t think they’re sissy pajamas, I just think they were happy. Every five-year-old kid should have a pair of happy pajamas.

After beer number twelve we left. If it was during the day and it wasn’t raining Mom would take us for a walk in the woods. She’d put Calli in this harness thing that hung in front of her and we’d head off into the woods. She’d show me all the places she played when she was a little kid, Willow Wallow, Lone Tree Bridge, and, of course, Willow Creek. She’d take us down to where the creek was wide and had these big boulders sticking out like steps. Mom would lift Calli out of the harness and lay her in a blanket in a shady spot and then she’d show me how she could cross the creek using those boulders in twenty-five seconds. When she was younger, she’d be able to make the trek in fifteen seconds flat, three seconds faster than her friend would. Her friend, I knew, was Deputy Louis, though she’d never call him by name. He was just her “friend.”

One time, after beer number twelve, before we up and left the house, Mom said something about Louis, something about when they were kids, like nine, and Dad hit the roof. He started ranting about Mom, calling her all these horrible names, threw a beer can at her. So Mom doesn’t talk about when she was little anymore around Dad.

After a couple of hours clomping around the woods, after Dad had a good chance to get up to beer number who knows what, she’d take us home. Beer number who knows what was usually followed by a long sleep. We could make as much noise as we wanted to; Dad would be completely passed out. But we didn’t, we stayed quiet, didn’t even watch TV when he was like that. I was always a little worried that he’d wake up when I was caught up in some old rerun and he’d smack me upside the head when I wasn’t ready for it.

I used to walk around, holding my pop can the way Dad held his beer can. I’d hold it in my right hand, popping the top with my left, even though I’m a righty. I practiced tilting it back to my lips, taking a big gulp and swishing it around in my mouth before swallowing hard, then tossing the can to the floor when I was finished. Mom caught me doing this once. She looked at me long and hard and I thought for a minute that she was gonna get mad at me, even though I never saw her get mad at Dad for doing it. But she didn’t. She just looked at me and said, “Benny, let me get you a glass of ice for your pop next time, and a straw. It tastes so much better that way.”

And she would—every time I had a pop, out came the frosted glass, ice, and a straw. She was right, though, it did taste better that way.

Sometimes, after beer number who knows how many and the long nap, Dad would wake up and still be real nervous-like. Then he’d go into his bedroom clothes closet, dig around in there for a while and then pull out a dark bottle of something. The minute Mom saw him searching through his closet for that bottle, we were outta there. Mom would stick us in her car and off we’d go. If it was evening time, she’d take us out to eat over in Winner, which was a bigger town and had a Culver’s. We’d get hamburgers and French fries and share an order of onion rings. Calli’d sit in her high chair and Mom would break off tiny pieces of her food and lay them on the tray in front of Calli. It was funny watching Calli try to pinch those tiny bits of food between her fingers. Sometimes she’d miss, but still stick her fingers in her mouth, hoping to get a taste of something. Afterward, before we’d leave, Mom would buy me a big thick Oreo shake all my own. She’d buckle me into the backseat and I’d settle for the long ride home, sucking on my shake. Winner wasn’t all that far from Willow Creek, but Mom would take what she called the scenic route and we’d drive and drive and drive.

One night after driving and driving, I was jerked awake when our car bounced down the side of the road, in and out of a ditch. Mom stopped the car on the edge of the road and turned back to Calli and me.

“You okay?” she asked. I nodded yes, even though she couldn’t have seen my face in the dark.

“I spilled some of my shake, though,” I told her.

She handed me some napkins to wipe up my pants and then laid her head on the steering wheel. “I’m sorry,” she said, but not really to me. “I’m sorry, I’m just so tired.”

Then she started the car up again and we went on home. Dad was sleeping in his chair, beer cans everywhere. I bet if I had counted them there would have been at least twenty-one, plus the dark brown bottle sitting on the end table. Mom didn’t bother picking up all those cans that night. She walked right on past them, saying something about how “he can just pick up after himself from now on,” and took Calli and me on up to bed.

From then on, if Dad started digging around for his bottle from the closet, he could never find it. This made him furious, but after a while he’d just stagger around until he found another beer in the refrigerator and then he’d settle back into his chair. Once in a while, when Dad started acting kind of scary, Mom would put us in the car and take us over to Winner, but we never drove around for as long as we did that one night she went off the road. She’d pull into a park area, lock our doors and close her eyes for a while. “Just resting,” she’d tell us. On one really cold winter night we got to stay at a motel in Winner. It didn’t have a pool or nothing, but it had cable and Mom let me flip through all the channels as much as I wanted to. Mom just sat on the bed with me, holding Calli, trying not to cry.

I hope I’m not doing the wrong thing. I hope that Petra doesn’t die because of what I am doing; I hope that she isn’t already dead.

Now Dad and I are just sitting here, all bloody, looking at each other, waiting for the other one to make a move, but we don’t. Not yet.

ANTONIA

Ben has not returned yet, so on top of everything else, I need to worry about him, as well. The comments from the Gregorys didn’t help matters, either. I know Ben, he wouldn’t hurt the girls, and I know Griff, he just plain doesn’t find kids interesting enough to spend very much time getting mad at them. Besides, the number of beer cans strewn around the house this morning was much less than normal, well short of his mean drinking. If he’d gotten to the mean drinking stage I would have been much more concerned.

Louis has not returned my call. I know he is busy with other aspects of this case, as well as his other duties, but I am surprised that he isn’t here. Louis has always been there for me, except when he left for college. Even I know that me asking him to stay was asking too much. Louis was there when a fifth-grade bully was terrorizing me when we were nine, he was there when I had a panic attack about presenting a speech for my tenth-grade literature class, and he was there when my mother died.

Even though my mother and I were so different, had so little in common, Louis knew that the loss of her was the biggest thing that had ever happened to me. He knew that those hours that my father and I spent nursing her while she lay in bed, rotting from breast cancer had left a deep-seated imprint on me. Louis would drive me to the public library in order to check out whatever book my mother had requested I read to her, while a morphine pump deadened some of the pain.

My mother was a great reader. I was not. I liked books; I just didn’t have time for them. Between school, working at the convenience store and spending time with Louis, I never made the effort to read. My mother was always placing books on my bedside table, hoping that I would pick one up and have a wonderful discussion about it with her. I never did, not until she got sick. Then, out of guilt more than anything, I began to read to her. One day, near the end, my mother asked me to find her old copy of My Ántonia by Willa Cather. I had seen this book before; my mother had set it on my bedside table many times. I had never taken the time to read it, even though my name was chosen because this was my mother’s favorite book. I could not imagine what I could possibly have in common with the Antonia ofWilla Cather’s world, so long ago. But at my mother’s request I began to read. I tumbled, reluctantly, into the turn-of-the-century Nebraska, and loved what I found. Louis would often sit with me while I read aloud to my mother. I was so self-conscious at first, not used to the sound of my own voice in my ears, but he seemed to enjoy it and my mother often had a weak smile on her face as I read.

One afternoon, about three weeks before my mother died, she patted the mattress on the hospital bed that we had brought in when we knew that she was going to die. I lowered the metal bar that prevented my mother from falling out of bed and gingerly sat next to her.

“Come closer, Antonia,” she said to me. My mother never called me Toni, it was always Antonia. I moved in closer to her, careful of the tubes that ran into her arm. It was so hard looking at her like that. My beautiful, beautiful mother who always smelled of Chanel before. Now a different smell, sour and old, hung around her. Her hair, once a golden-blond, now was dun-colored and lay lank on her shoulders, her face pale and pinched with pain.

“Antonia, my Antonia,” she whispered. I secretly loved it when she called me that. “I just wanted to tell you a few things, before…before—” She swallowed with great effort. “Before I die,” she finished.

“Mom, don’t say that,” I squeaked and before I knew it the tears were falling. How I hated to cry.

“Antonia, I am going to die, and very soon. I just didn’t get enough time with you,” she sighed. “The boys, they’ll be all right, but you, you I worry about.”

“I’m okay, Mom,” I sniffled, trying not to let her see me cry.

She took my hands in hers and I played with her wedding ring like I did when we were sitting in church when I was little so many years before. The ring spun loosely on her ring finger, she had lost so much weight. Her hands looked as if they belonged to a much older woman, the blue-tinged veins thick and protruding.

“Louis is a nice young man,” she said.

“Yeah, he is,” I agreed.

“Antonia, I won’t be at your wedding…” she started.

“Mom, please don’t say that,” I begged. My nose ran thickly and I had to pull a hand from hers to wipe it. “Please don’t talk like that.”

“I won’t be at your wedding, so I want to tell you a few things about being a wife and a mother.” She waited patiently until my sobs became quiet, wet hitches of breath. “People say that being a mother is the most important job you will ever have. And it is very important. But it is even more important, I believe, to be a wife, a good wife.”

I must have looked at her skeptically, because she started to chuckle at me, but the laughter caused her too much pain.

“I don’t mean you have be a floor mat. That’s not what I mean at all. I mean, who you choose to walk with through life will be the most important decision that you will ever, ever make. You will have your children and you will love them because they are yours and because they will be wonderful. Just like you.” She wrinkled her nose at me and grinned. “But who you marry is a choice. The man you choose should make you happy, encourage you in following your dreams, big ones and little ones.”

“Did Dad do that for you?” I asked. Night was settling in and the shadows made my mother look much softer, much younger, and less like she was dying.

“He did. I had such simple dreams, though. I just wanted to be a wife and mother. That’s all, really. You must remember that, Antonia. In the end, I have had everything that I have ever wanted. My dear, sweet husband and my dear, sweet children. I just wish I had more time with you.” She began crying quietly.

“It’s okay, Mom, it’s okay,” I tried to soothe her. “I’ll remember what you said, I promise.” She nodded and tried to smile, but her pain caused her lips to curl downward. I picked up the book that lay next to her bed.

“How about a little Carson McCullers?” I asked.

“Yes, that would be just fine,” she answered.

I began reading and my mother fell asleep within minutes. For the first time that I could remember, I bent down and kissed her while she slept. Her lips felt thin and papery, but warm. Underneath the odor of disease and the sheer exertion of trying to live, I caught her true scent. And I closed my eyes and willed myself to remember. But I went and forgot, didn’t I? I forgot everything she had told me.

I was sitting in World History class one afternoon, when the principal came to my classroom door. The teacher stopped writing on the chalkboard and he went over to where the principal stood; they whispered with their heads close together for a moment and then both looked in my direction. I remember my chest tightening in fear and thinking to myself, I haven’t had enough time with you yet, Mom, I haven’t had enough time with you, either. I slowly rose from my chair, leaving my books and things behind. I remember Louis following along behind me, gripping my elbow, walking me to his car and driving me home. He stayed with me long into that first terrible night without my mother. We didn’t talk—we didn’t have to—and now I think we had much the same friendship that Calli and Petra have.

After my mother died I continued to read. Before I went to bed each night I would read a few pages of a book aloud to myself. It took me forever to finish a novel, but it didn’t seem right to me to read silently to myself anymore. Odd, I know. Griff made fun of me when I read children’s books that I would find at garage sales to Ben when he was in my womb. I learned not to do that when he was around, but I loved cradling my huge stomach with one arm while holding a book in the other, reading to my tiny fetus. I firmly believed Ben could hear me in there, rocking back and forth, maybe a tiny little thumb in his mouth. It was much more acceptable reading aloud like that after my children were born. Even now, I read each night to Calli and even Ben, once in a great while, will let me read part of the book he is reading. When Griff is out of town, I will crawl into my bed and read myself a bedtime story until I fall asleep, book in hand.

Louis asked me a few times, after my mother died, if I would read to him, but I was too self-conscious and wouldn’t. He gave up after I told him impatiently not to ask me again. Louis was always there for me, until, of course, I wouldn’t let him be. Even when my father passed away. Griff and I had been married for three years; Louis sent me a sympathy card. I could tell it was from him without even looking at the return address. I had memorized his small, neat printing back when we were in first grade. I never showed the card to Griff, Louis had signed the card Always, Louis and I did not have the energy to try to explain that to Griff.

Sometimes I dream of Louis. Of he and I together as we once were, when we were sixteen. In my dreams we are always in Willow Creek Woods walking hand in hand. I can feel the texture of his palm against mine, the brush of his fingers. Even now, when I think back to these dreams, if I sit completely still I can feel his touch. In my dreams, when Louis kisses me, the rush of air that we exchange into each other’s mouth remains on my tongue hours after I’ve wakened. In the back of my mind, even as I am dreaming, I am saying to myself, You’re married, Antonia, what about your husband? What about Griff? And in my dream I would force myself to pull away from Louis, to sweep away the feel of his touch. I would awaken then, sometimes with Griff next to me, but more often than not with Griff a thousand miles away in Alaska, my skin hot and my brain addled.

Still I could go for days, even weeks, without thinking of Louis. But then I would see his police car parked downtown or I’d see his pretty wife in the grocery store with their little boy situated in the grocery cart, kicking his fat little legs and I’d think, That could be me, that could be my life. Then I’d get disgusted with myself and shut down that corner of my mind for a while. Griff wasn’t always so bad. He didn’t start drinking really hard-core until after Ben was born. And he didn’t hit me for the first time until Ben was three. I don’t even remember what it was that I had done to make him so mad, but he hit me so hard that I didn’t leave the house without sunglasses for a month. He didn’t hit me again for at least a year, but he did get smarter about it. He never hit me in a place where someone would see the marks. But even so, he could be so wonderful. So funny and sweet. And the stories he would tell about his adventures on the pipeline always made me laugh so hard. Even Lou could never make me laugh like that. If only he could stop drinking, things could be so different. No, I know Griff loves me and he’s my husband. He was my choice, just like they say, for better or worse.

I need to go and look for Ben now, with or without Louis. I am used to Griff not being around for me. That was one thing that I could count on, Griff not being reliable. I decide I am not coming out of the forest until I have Ben for sure. I’m not confident that Calli is in the woods, but it makes sense that she would be. I will bring her home, too. Mrs. Norland tries to talk me out of leaving, but in the end places several bottles of water into my backpack and gives me a hug. As I loop the backpack through my arms and settle it onto my back I see Martin Gregory trekking his way toward Mrs. Norland’s house.

“Now what?” I wonder and I open the door to meet him halfway.

DEPUTY SHERIFF LOUIS

I walk Mary Ellen McIntire to the exit, open the door for her and once again the heat of the day nearly takes my breath away. I tell her that I will let her know if she can be of any assistance to the Clark and Gregory families and watch her make her way to her car. She looks defeated, broken, and I wonder if this day will ever end. I see Tucci waving me over to him and I close the door on the oppressive heat outside. “Who was the guy that was brought in a minute ago?” I ask him.

“The tall guy with white hair?” Tucci asks, but continues without waiting for my answer. “That was Charles Wilson, the counselor over at the elementary school. And guess where they picked him up at?” This time Tucci waits for my response.

“Where?” I ask, but think I already know the answer and I feel my stomach clench.

“Willow Creek Woods,” Tucci says, smacking his hand on his desk. “Says he was out walking his dog. But guess what? No dog. Park ranger noticed him roaming around Tanglefoot Trail and called us. Bender and Washburn went out and picked him up.”

“What’s he saying?” I ask.

“Nada. Nothing. He’s lawyered up. The minute the little girls were mentioned, he clammed up,” Tucci says triumphantly. Already he thinks that Wilson is the one who took the girls. Maybe so, but what about Griff?

“Do you think he would talk to me?” I ask Tucci.

“No way. He said he wanted his lawyer, right away. He’s sitting in the conference room waiting for her. We got nothing on him. His lawyer will have him out of here in the next hour.” My phone rings and I sit back in my chair to answer it.

“Louis, it’s Martin. Antonia and I were wondering if you could come over to Mrs. Norland’s home.”

I sit up straight in my chair. “Did something happen?” I ask.

“Nothing you don’t already know about. They found those footprints in Antonia’s backyard, but we want to talk to you about searching for the girls.”

“Martin, a few officers made a sweep of the woods near your home and found nothing. A larger scale search is being planned with dogs and a helicopter,” I say. I consider telling him about Charles Wilson being brought in, but decide against it. I know too little, and I don’t want to get his hopes up for nothing.

“I know. I understand you are doing what you can, but time is passing too quickly. Please come over to Mrs. Norland’s house. We need your help. Please,” Martin pleads.

“I’ll be right over, Martin. Don’t go and do anything until I get there, okay?”

“We’ll be waiting. Please hurry.”

I hang up the phone, not a little bothered that Toni hadn’t been the one to call me. I wonder what it meant. Is she losing faith in me, doubting my abilities as an officer? I hope not. There are few leads. Maybe the school counselor is the guy. Doesn’t feel right, though. Tanglefoot Trail, where he was picked up, is nowhere near the girls’ homes. We still can’t seem to locate Lucky Thompson, the college kid who works at the Mourning Glory. He hadn’t shown up for his afternoon shift at the café. So many questions. My hand rests on the phone’s receiver, and I am debating whether to call my wife. I should have checked in with her by now. I leave the police station without calling her. As I pull away, I switch my radio to F2 so that only Meg, our dispatcher, can hear me.

“Meg, this is for your information only,” I tell her.

“Go ahead,” she responds.

“I’m checking out the woods along Bobcat Trail for our missing girls. I’ll be back in contact shortly.”

“Ten-four.”

ANTONIA

Louis is on his way over. It seems so simple now, for us to just go out into the woods to look for the girls. I don’t plan to come home until I have Ben, Calli and Petra back with us.

“How do you think we can get past the press or the other officers without them knowing where we are going?” Martin asks.

“I don’t know.” That same question has been nagging me, as well. While getting as many people as possible looking for the kids would be a good thing, the idea of a camera following us around did not appeal to me. Besides, I wonder how Calli would react if there were a bunch of strangers in the woods looking for her. I think it would frighten her, that perhaps she would hide, making it much more difficult to find her.

Earlier, I had thought there was no way I would survive this day. A hundred emotions have traveled the course of my body and I am exhausted. But now the day is ending and the less sunlight we have, the more difficult it will be to locate the children. I wish we had set out hours earlier and I find myself resenting Louis and Agent Fitzgerald for snatching precious time away.

“He’s here,” Martin says, seeing Louis through Mrs. Norland’s curtains.

I open the door to let him in even before he can knock.

“Hi,” I say. “Thanks for coming.”

“Sure. Martin sounded urgent.” Louis reaches out to shake Martin’s hand in greeting. Who did that anymore, I wonder. It is so formal, especially in our circumstance.

“We want to go looking for the children,” Martin informs him. “I know that’s not really in the plan that Agent Fitzgerald laid out, but we feel we need to do this.”

Louis listens, showing no reaction.

“It’s going to be dark in a few hours, Louis,” I tell him. “I cannot stand the idea of them being out there in the woods at night. I have to go looking for them.”

“I know what you’re saying. I don’t disagree with you. I just think that we would be able to cover a lot more ground with the organized search tomorrow. We’ll have the search dogs and all the people we could ask for.”

“We can still do all that tomorrow, if we need to.” Impatience fills Martin’s voice. “Right now, Antonia and I are going out looking for them, with you or without you. We’re hoping you will be able to go with us or at least help us avoid the media as we set out.” Martin and I both anxiously await Louis’s decision. He has the same look on his face that he’d get when we were kids. That look of indecision right after I would dare him to do something he knew would either get him in trouble or hurt. In the end, Lou always took the dare.

“All right. Where do you want to start?” Louis asks with a sigh.

Martin looks to me. “I’m not familiar with the forest. I wouldn’t know where to begin looking, I am afraid.”

“Ben said he already tried Willow Wallow and the places on the edge of the woods. Let’s head in deeper right away. How about Old Schoolhouse Path and then Bobcat Trail? Maybe the girls tried to find the school and got lost,” I suggest.

Old Schoolhouse Path is a winding, mostly overgrown trail only recognizable to those who know the woods well. Settled about three miles into the woods is a small one-room schoolhouse, at least one hundred years old. No one knows why someone would choose to build a school in such a remote, difficult place to reach. Some people who had lived at the edge of the forest believed that a small group of settlers had made their home in the woods and as a community had built the school. It was difficult, however, to keep a teacher interested in staying in such an isolated area. So eventually, the people of the wood moved closer into town and abandoned the school made of limestone and oak. The sturdy little school was still standing, but engulfed by weeds. The small windows were broken out and many woodland animals had taken up residence there.

I had taken Ben and Calli there once a few years ago and we had talked of cleaning up the schoolhouse, maybe making a fort out of it, our own personal hiding spot. But it was too far into the woods, the hike too tiring for Calli, and we discarded the idea. Maybe Calli and Petra had decided to find the old school and investigate. This idea was much more comforting a scenario than the one that included Calli’s footprints in the dust. Calli being dragged off somewhere.

“What about the reporters?” Martin asks.

“Could we distract them somehow?” I wonder. “Tell them that there is going to be a press conference at the sheriff’s office, send them there?”

“That’s all fine and good until they get there and there’s no press conference. You don’t want to piss them off, Toni. You may need them later on,” Louis says.

“I think I know what we can do,” Martin remarks. “May I use Mrs. Norland’s telephone?”

“Of course,” I answer. “Who are you calling?”

“Fielda,” he responds. “She was planning on speaking with a reporter from Channel Twelve anyway. I don’t think a few more reporters will matter.”

“I think I know how we can keep the reporters happy for even longer,” Louis adds. “If Fielda wouldn’t mind, I know of someone who wants to help in any way that she can. Mary Ellen McIntire is in town.” Louis looks at us expectantly.

“You mean the lady whose little girl was murdered? You don’t think the same person who did that to her daughter had anything to do with this, do you, Louis?” I ask, my voice cracking.

“I don’t know, Toni. I hope not. It’s different in many ways, but Jenna McIntire was somehow lured from her home and into a wooded area. There’s just enough of a similarity for Agent Fitzgerald to be interested and for the press to be all over this. It will keep the media occupied for a while.”

Martin and I look at each other. “I’ll call Fielda and explain what we are doing. Louis, call Mrs. McIntire and have her drive over to my mother-in-law’s home. Antonia, go outside and tell the reporters that there will be a press conference at the Mourning home in—” he looks at his watch “—in fifteen minutes.”

BEN

I am so tired and I keep nodding off. My eyes are nearly swollen shut and my head is throbbing. Dad looks like he is sleeping, so I relax a little bit. Through my slits for eyes I see Petra move, just a little bit. So she’s not dead, thank God. I stand from where I am sitting, using a tree to steady myself. I feel dizzy and so, so tired. All I want to do is take a drink of water, ice-cold, and crawl into my bed and sleep for days. I stumble over to where Petra lies; she has tucked herself into a little ball, her arms covering her head so I can’t see her face, which is prob’ly a good thing. My stomach isn’t feeling so great; I don’t think I can stand to get too close a look at Petra’s face beaten to a pulp. But I need to get her to talk to me, to tell me what happened while Dad is sleeping.

“Petra,” I whisper. “Petra!” I say a little bit louder. I kneel down and place my hand on her shoulder. My fingers are covered with dried blood and no amount of wiping them on my shorts will clean them off. Petra curls up tighter into her little ball.

“Petra, it’s Ben. Please wake up. I gotta talk to you.”

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. I let him go. Had Calli gotten down to the bottom yet? I’m not sure how much time has passed. She is fast, though, faster than I would have been, but did she have enough time to get to help before Dad got to her? I didn’t know. Maybe he’s just hiding behind a tree somewhere, waiting for me to turn my back, then he can finish both me and Petra off. I feel only a little bit of shame in thinking that Dad would kill me, but he had broken my nose and Petra was lying there half-dead. I don’t feel so big and strong just now. I can almost hear Dad laughing at me, “Oooh, the big hero, Ben! What’cha gonna do now? Them tears, Ben? A crybaby on top of it all.”

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 confusion and relief. Martin is crying, great inconsolable sobs. And I see what they both do not. Bunched up in Calli’s other hand is Petra’s white underwear with yellow flowers.

MARTIN

I turn when I hear the rustle in the trees. I see Petra’s little friend, Calli, running down the path. It is what is in her hand that I am drawn to. From so far away it glints as it swings from her hand. It has never been off Petra’s neck, and my stomach seizes and the strength rushes from my limbs and I stumble to my knees. I look to her face, and on it I see fierce determination, not fear, not terror. A smile almost plays on her grimy face. A moment of hope. I look behind Calli and do not see Petra following. She’s cleared the brush now and I stand up, my hand already outstretched to take back my child’s necklace. The girl stops in front of her mother and the deputy sheriff, her breath coming out in ragged puffs. This mute little creature who never speaks, and I feel desperation roiling up in me. I need to find my Petra, now. I am running to where the girl stands, ready to shake her bony shoulders. “Tell me! Tell me!” I will scream, my nose touching hers.

I stop a few steps from her. She is tugging on the sleeve of the deputy sheriff. He bends down, his ear level with her mouth. One word crashes into me, and I weep.

ANTONIA

In the woods, through the bee trees whose heavy, sweet smell will forever remind me of this day, I see flashes of your pink summer nightgown that you wore to bed last night. My chest loosens and I am shaky with relief. I scarcely notice your scratched legs, muddy knees, or the chain in your hand. I reach out to gather you in my arms, to hold you so tight, to lay my cheek on your sweaty head. I will never wish for you to speak, never silently beg you to talk. You are here. But you step past me, not seeing me, you stop at Louis’s side, and I think, You don’t even see me, it’s Louis’s deputy sheriff’s uniform, good girl, that’s the smart thing to do. Louis lowers himself toward you, and I am fastened to the look on your face. I see your lips begin to arrange themselves and I know, I know. I see the word form, the syllables hardening and sliding from your mouth, with no effort. Your voice, not unsure or hoarse from lack of use, but clear and bold. One word, the first in over three years. In an instant I have you in my arms and I am crying, tears dropping many emotions, mostly thankfulness and relief, but tears of sorrow mixed in. I see Petra’s father crumble. Your chosen word doesn’t make sense to me. But it doesn’t matter, I don’t care. You have finally spoken.

CALLI

Calli ran on legs that she could no longer feel, just a heaviness below her waist, but the need to move forward kept her going. For Ben. For Ben who always came through for her, who took beatings and cruel words that in all rights belonged to her. Calli gripped more tightly to the items in her hands, Petra’s necklace and her underwear. Why Petra wasn’t wearing them, Calli did not understand, but she knew that they were important in all of this. Petra, hurt so badly, he had said she might die. Oh, God, would that be her fault, too? Out of the corner of her eye she saw a straw-colored lump among a patch of brown-tipped ferns. Calli stopped abruptly. The dog. The dog she had seen earlier, wandering playfully through the woods. Dead. Lying there in a heap, its long, pink tongue poking from between its pointed teeth. Its eyes open wide and unseeing. The dog’s collar had been removed. Calli had the unnerving feeling that something was watching her and she turned away from the dog and continued her trek down the bluff. Faster, faster, not even watching the ground in front of her for rocks or roots that could cause her to stumble. Ben said to go down, go down to find help, and she would. That man. That scary man, up there, too. His dog. Yes, that was his dog. Daddy, she thought, Daddy, he was so angry with her and he would take it out on Ben, she knew, and Petra, maybe. Ben, Daddy, Petra, that man, Ben, Daddy, Petra, that man, Ben, Daddy, Petra, that man…The words spiraled through her mind. Then she could see it, the end of the trail, where the trees abruptly stopped. Ben, Daddy, Petra, that man, Ben, Daddy, Petra, that man. She ran out into the clearing, saw an unexpected sight, her mother, oh, her mother, and Deputy Louis and Petra’s daddy! She could stop running now. She did what Ben had told her to do, get help. Ben, Daddy, Petra, that man, Ben, Daddy, Petra, that man, Ben, Daddy. Who to go to? Deputy Louis, yes, he would get help right away, get that man, get Daddy. She was at the deputy’s side, her mother’s arms stretched out toward her…Ben, Daddy, Petra, that man, Ben, Daddy, Petra, that man, Ben, Daddy, Petra, that man…

“Ben!” The name erupted from her, it didn’t feel like it came from her mouth exactly, but somewhere deeper, from just below her breastbone. She didn’t recognize her own voice, it sounded so strong, so clear and she wanted to say more…Ben, Daddy, Petra, that man, Ben, Daddy…But then her mother’s arms were around her, rocking her. She was so tired, so thirsty, they were all moving now, and she went silent once again.

MARTIN

Calli is still holding Petra’s necklace, surrounded by her mother and Deputy Louis. Through my tears I go toward her to get it back. Ben? Ben did this? I could not believe it, though, yes, it crossed my mind when Fielda had broached the subject hours ago in anger. Ben? I try to pry the charm from Calli’s fingers, but Louis steps between us.

“Martin, give her space,” he orders.

“Where is she?” I croak. Calli has her face buried in her mother’s stomach; my hands are shaking in desperation.

“Martin,” Louis says gently, “we’ll find her. I’m calling for backup right now.”

I can see Louis fumbling and retrieve something from Calli’s hand, not the one holding the necklace. I crane to see what it is, but cannot. He crumples the item into his fist, so I cannot tell what he is holding, and then he lopes off to his car to call for help.

“Calli, tell me, is Petra all right?” I ask as soothingly as I can. “Did you just come from her? Please tell me. Is Ben up there with her? Did Ben hurt you?”

Antonia gives me a searing stare and shields Calli from me. As if I am the dangerous one here. “Listen, I don’t know what you’re thinking, but Ben had nothing to do with…” Louis hurries back to us, interrupting Antonia’s angry reproach.

“I’ve called for more officers to help us go up after Petra and Ben.” He pauses and looks Calli up and down. “And for an ambulance. The medics will check Calli over and will be available if Petra and Ben need assistance,” Louis tells us. He bends down to face Calli. “Calli,” he says soothingly, “is Petra okay?” He waits for a response from her. Slowly, she shakes her head no and I moan and head toward the trail.

“Martin, wait! We need more information before we go up there! There are three trails—we need to know which one to take!” I stop and return to them, agitated.

“Ask her, then, ask her where they are! She can talk, she said, ‘Ben!’ Ask her!” I shout, spittle flies from my lips and both Calli and Antonia cringe at my outburst.

“Martin, go stand by the road,” Louis orders. “Stand there and flag down the ambulance so it knows that we are here. I’ll talk to Calli. She’ll let us know exactly where to go.” His voice softens as he adds, “It will save us time this way. I promise. Now go, wait for the ambulance and the other officers.”

I do as he says, however petulantly, and he returns to where Calli and Antonia stand, holding on to each other. The injustice of it stings me. I should be hugging Petra, reassuring her, not still wondering where she is, alive or dead. I tromp over to the road, where gravel meets the pavement and wait, scanning the distance, searching for the ambulance. Not yet. I lean against the police car, its metal still exuding the day’s monstrous heat, and I leap away.

Antonia calls back to me, hesitation in her voice. I must have frightened her. “Martin, can you grab a water bottle for Calli? They’re in the backseat.”

I hear Louis yell, “No, wait!” and he comes running toward me.

I open the back door, behind the passenger’s seat and pull out three water bottles, two for Calli and one that I will bring up with me when we go to find Petra. I, frankly, do not care about Ben at this point. Had he done this? As I begin to pull myself out the car I see them. Stained in dirt, but I recognize them, I had folded them myself just yesterday when I pulled them from the dryer. White with little yellow flowers. I snatch the plastic bag that held them and inspect them closely, by now Louis is at my side.

“Martin,” he says helplessly. I shove the package into his chest, not able to look at it anymore.

“I am going after my daughter,” I tell him simply, calmly, despite the terror clutching at my chest. And I run, all fifty-some years of me, up that trail, with Deputy Louis calling after me.

“Martin, wait! Wait! We need to wait for backup.”

I ignore his pleas and run.

DEPUTY SHERIFF LOUIS

“Damn,” I mutter to myself as Martin dashes past me and heads up the trail. God knows what he will find up there. “Toni,” I bark. “Wait here for the other officers and the ambulance. I’m going with Martin.” I scan her worried face. “It will be okay. I’ll go up there and bring Ben down, safe and sound. Don’t worry. We’ll take Hobo Hollow. Tell them the trail on the left, where it forks.”

She nods and squeezes my hand.

“Thank you, Louis.” Her voice trembles. I squeeze back and follow Martin into the woods.

It doesn’t take me long to catch up with him. He is stopped near the edge of a trail and is examining something lying off to the side. He is breathing heavily and does not turn as I step close to him at his elbow.

“It’s dead,” he says matter-of-factly.

I reach down to touch the dog’s flank. “He’s still warm,” I observe. “He hasn’t been here long.”

“What do you think happened to it?” Martin asks fearfully.

“I don’t know.” I keep my voice level and calm. “Martin, you need to go back down now. You’re going to get both of us in a lot of trouble if you go up there.”

“I’m going up,” Martin says firmly.

I sigh in resignation. “Let’s take it somewhat slower, though, all right? It will do Petra no good if one of us gets hurt before we reach her. Okay?”

“Yes, fine,” he says, gazing down at the dead dog. “We need to hurry, though, please. Let’s hurry.”

We continue upward. Dusk is only an hour or so away, but close enough for me to begin to worry that we won’t get Petra, Ben and whoever else was at the top of the bluff down. A rescue mission down the bluff would be difficult enough during daylight, but in the dark of night, it would be complex. I requested that several all-terrain vehicles be brought to the trail to expedite matters. I had also told the dispatcher to have a helicopter from Iowa City on standby in case of serious injuries.

“Petra isn’t dead, Martin.”

He looks at me. “Did Calli tell you that?”

“Not in words, but I questioned her. She indicated that Petra was at the top of Hobo Hollow and she was hurt, but she couldn’t say how badly.”

“Did she tell you who did this?” Martin says through gritted teeth, wheezing with the exertion of the climb.

“No, I didn’t get that from her. That was when you found…Do you need to sit and rest for a moment, Martin?”

“No, I’m fine.” We continue forward in silence.

“I could kill whoever did this, Louis. I really and truly could.”

“That wouldn’t solve anything, Martin. It would make things worse, so much worse.”

“You have a child, a son.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes. His name is Tanner, he’s four.”

“And you would do anything for him?” Martin asks, concentrating on the ground in front of him.

“Yes, I think I would.”

“Then you could kill someone who hurt your child, in that way,” he says resolutely.

I take a sidelong glance at Martin. His face is waxy. A sweaty sheen covers his forehead and he mops at it with a handkerchief that he pulls from his pocket. “I would probably feel like killing someone who would hurt Tanner, but I don’t actually think I would. Especially if the police were already there to help.”

“She said, ‘Ben,’ and she was holding Petra’s necklace and her underpants in her hands. What do you suppose is going through my mind?” He stops for a fraction of a second, shakes his head and then hurries onward. “We need to get to the top, and then we will go from there.”

I take a moment to use my walkie-talkie to convey where I am and to get an update on what was happening at the base of the trail. The ambulances have just arrived. One to transport Calli and Toni to the hospital, another standing by, waiting for further direction. Two officers on four-wheelers and several on foot and horseback would be joining us shortly. I remind everyone that we had no suspect and no description of a suspect. Just that everyone needed to be on the lookout for Petra and Ben. Most of the officers knew them by sight, but pictures were circulating.

We are nearing the fork in the trail and I use my arm to specify the direction we would take. “Whatever we find up there, Martin, you must let me step forward first. Your first thought will be to go to Petra, but don’t.” I step in front of him in order to make him stop. “Do you understand me, Martin? You can’t just barrel up there. Someone dangerous may be at the top. Hell, someone dangerous could be watching us right now. You need to let me determine what we do next. We shouldn’t even be up here right now without other officers.”

“You couldn’t have stopped me,” Martin says.

“No, that’s why I’m up here with you. I don’t want you getting hurt, or you hurting someone else, for that matter. When we get up there, you wait. You wait until I tell you what to do next. You stay behind me at all times. Got it?”

Martin purses his lips and looks prepared to argue, but he doesn’t. “I understand,” he says and keeps walking. I am surprised by his stamina. He is still going strong, and even my legs are beginning to ache with the effort of trekking up the bluff. I am sure that adrenaline has a lot to do with Martin’s endurance. He will be a very sore man tomorrow morning.

CALLI

Her mother had taken one look at her torn and bleeding feet and picked her up, holding her as she would a toddler, chest to chest, Calli’s chin resting on her shoulder. Petra’s father had scared her. The look on his face, the terrible sound in his voice. Much different from her father’s, but even more insistent. They had left so quickly, but that was good, they were going up to get Ben and Petra, get help, which was what Ben had told her to do. And she had done that, gotten help. Everything would be okay now. She was so tired now, so sleepy. The water had tasted good; she drank and drank from the water bottle her mother pressed to her lips. But now she felt sick to her stomach, the water was gurgling around in her empty middle.

She was vaguely aware that she had spoken. One word. Ben. She had said her brother’s name and she was so surprised that nothing bad had happened when she spoke the word. Her mother was still there holding tightly to her, she hadn’t been ripped from her, nothing bad had happened. Calli thought that she might like to say more, but she was so very tired. The feeling had returned to her damaged feet and they burned. All she really wanted to do was sleep, sleep with her hands linked around her mother, her head tucked into the soft groove that was her mother’s neck. In the distance she could hear the wail of an ambulance coming closer.

In a quiet, half-asleep nook of her mind, the thought that she perhaps should have said more to Deputy Louis flitted at her like a dragonfly. What had she said? Ben. But there was so much more she should have said. Ben, Daddy, Petra, that man, Ben, Daddy, Petra, that man, Ben, Daddy, Petra, that man. Petra’s daddy had looked so frightened, but she had only said Ben, that wasn’t scary. Then Petra’s daddy had run and then Deputy Louis ran after him. To help. Ben, Daddy, Petra, that man, Ben, Daddy, Petra, that man, Ben, Daddy, Petra, that man. Calli soundlessly mouthed the words Ben, Daddy, Petra, that man, Ben, Daddy, Petra, that man, Ben, Daddy, Petra, that man…She was too weary and her mouth stilled.

The siren from the ambulance came to an abrupt stop and Calli could feel her mother laying her down. She struggled to stay in her mother’s arms, plucked at her shirt, trying to take hold, but her fingers felt weak and boneless and she was only able to feel the fabric slide through her grasp like water.

Her mother’s face drifted above her and she heard her say, “It’s okay now, Calli, I’m staying with you. I won’t leave. Sleep now. Just sleep.”

She felt her mother’s own fingers rest lightly on the side of her cheek and her mother kissed her, her lips warm and dry, like paper. And Calli drew in the scent that was her mother and let sleep take her.

BEN

I hear something in the woods crashing toward me. Oh, God, I think, Dad is coming back. Oh, God, he will kill me this time. I jump to my feet and ready myself for him. I tilt my head to hear better, I can barely see and I run my hands over my face, it feels puffy and sore. I reach for a nearby branch. It isn’t very thick or sturdy, but it has sharp points. I may be able to hold him back with it. Aim for the eyes, I tell myself.

The noise from the forest comes closer and it sounds too big to be Dad, it sounds like it is running on more than two feet and my next thought is coyote. And that freaks me out more than my father for some reason. Maybe because, with Dad, I know his ways, the way he moves, how he fights. A coyote would be a whole different story and I look around for a bigger stick. Then the noise is here, right here, and my next thought is of Petra. A coyote might go right for her, she is so little and helpless. She looks hurt bad. A big old coyote could just drag her off, eat her up in three big bites. I hurry over to her and spread my arms out wide, holding the stick ready for battle, waiting.

I’m not sure what is more surprising, me not seeing a coyote or my dad smashing out of the woods or seeing Petra’s dad and the deputy sheriff. I keep my eye on Mr. Gregory, because he looks so dang mad. I see him see Petra lying there and then he sees me holding this big old stick and I know right away what is going through his mind. Before I can even say anything he is flying at me. This old, real proper man flying at me. I see his feet actually leave the ground and I think, Well, crap, he thinks I did this to Petra. For the second time that day I get the wind knocked outta me, and let me tell you, it hurts a heck of a lot more the second time round when you can see what’s coming.

Then Mr. Gregory is on top of me, screaming something I can’t understand, and the whole time I’m not breathing so I can’t tell him what really happened, that they should be out there looking for my dad. But the only thing that comes outta me is a big “oomph!” Suddenly the deputy is there and he yanks Mr. Gregory offa me.

“Martin!” Deputy Louis screams. But Mr. Gregory is still trying to pound on me, saying something about pervert and how he is going to kill me. “Martin!” he screams again. “Martin, look at him!” And finally, Mr. Gregory drops his fists and looks at me, really looks at me and then at Petra.

Mr. Gregory looks down to where Petra is lying and he bends down. I can see him check to see if she is breathing. Mr. Gregory starts crying then. And I think I never saw a man cry before, really cry. I stand up and try to see what he is seeing. And my second thought is, she’s died. I let her die. I was supposed to take care of her until help came and she died. So then I start crying.

“Thank God, thank God,” I think I hear Mr. Gregory whispering over and over and I try to stop my blubbering to listen more closely to him. “Thank you, God,” Mr. Gregory says even louder.

“Is she okay?” I ask him, trying not to sound like a little kid, but my voice sounds all squeaky, so that it’s pretty clear that’s all I am.

“Ben, what happened?” Deputy Louis asks me. “Are you all right? Who did this to you?” And I know just then that at least the deputy doesn’t think I hurt anybody.

“My dad,” I whimper, giving in to the mess of it all. “My dad did it,” I cry. And in an instant, Deputy Louis has his arms around my shoulder, telling me that it’s gonna be okay. But how could it be?

“Petra needs a doctor, right now,” Martin says. “We need to get help up here right now.”

Deputy Louis gets on his walkie-talkie and says a few numbers that I take to be secret police codes and then I thump right back down on my butt, because all the fight has gone outta me and I can’t do one more thing. My legs feel like rubber, my face hurts and I figure Mr. Gregory broke something in me when he tackled me.

“A helicopter is coming in from Iowa City, but we need to get Petra to the nearest clearing, which is at the bottom where we came up from, Martin,” Deputy Louis tells him.

“I don’t think we should move her,” Martin says worriedly. “How are we going to get her down the bluff?”

“An EMT crew is coming up with the officers. They can check her out and recommend how this should be done.” Deputy Louis looks at his watch. “It will be dark any time now. We need to move fast.”

I look up to the sky and can see the pink and orange colors that come out right before the sun sets.

“I think she needs medical care as quickly as possible. Please,” Mr. Gregory implores, “we need to get her help now.” Mr. Gregory is not looking at me. I’m not sure if he feels bad about knocking me down or if he still isn’t sure what part I had in all this.

Now we can hear the low rumble of engines. The four-wheelers are almost to us. They come one by one to the top of the bluff. Two people, a man and a woman who I think must be the paramedics, hop off and rush over to Petra and immediately check her over. I scoot over to the far side of where the action is, trying to stay out of the way. Deputy Louis is busy talking to a group of police officers and to Ranger Phelps, who has come up on horseback. I sit back and just watch for a while and try to keep my eyes open, but keep dozing off.

I open my eyes and I can hear the chop, chop of a helicopter coming closer. It is night now. I can see stars, sharp little pinpricks of light above me, and I feel cold even though everyone else looks like they are sweating. Everyone is fussing around Petra, and everyone seems to have forgotten about me. I’m not the one hurt real bad, but I feel lonely sitting in my own little corner of the woods, with everyone hustling to make sure Petra is okay. I wonder about Calli. She musta got down the bluff and got help. I wonder where she is now and I look around for someone who doesn’t look too busy for me to ask. But they are all running around, so I just wait and watch. Watching Petra being strapped to that stretcher and dangling from the helicopter down the bluff is just about the scariest sight ever. The helicopter looks like a big old bird and Petra looks like something clutched in its talons. But I saw a lot of scary things today. I can’t see Mr. Gregory, but I imagine it is all he can do to not jump up and try to drag that stretcher right on back to solid ground.

We all watch as the helicopter takes her on down the bluff. She’ll only be in the air for a minute, then they will put her in the helicopter and carry her off to Iowa City. I wonder how we will get down the bluff.

ANTONIA

I insist that I go in the ambulance with Calli. I am not going to let her out of my sight again. I have mixed feelings leaving Ben behind, but I know that Louis will bring him to me safely. Poor Ben, he is always the one left to fend for himself, it seems. I feel a flash of anger at Griff for always leaving me in this position, the one to parent all on my own; he is never there when I need him.

Calli immediately falls asleep when she is laid in the ambulance, despite the paramedics poking at her, taking her pulse and blood pressure. One of the paramedics, a kind-looking older woman, gives me a reassuring smile.

“She’ll be okay,” she tells me. “All her injuries appear to be superficial, but they will give her a thorough examination at the hospital and get her cleaned up. We need to give her an IV, she’s showing signs of dehydration.” I watch as the paramedic swipes Calli’s arm with alcohol and expertly inserts the IV, Calli barely stirs at the procedure. I give a sigh of relief and the woman looks at me questioningly. “What happened up there?”

“I’m not sure. Something very bad,” I tell her and I look down at my Calli, knowing that right now, at least, she is the only one who can tell me exactly what happened up on Hobo Hollow. I wonder if she will speak again or if she will go back to her silence. “Can you go any faster?” I ask the paramedic. She shakes her head no.

“We don’t put on the lights unless it’s a life or death emergency,” she says apologetically.

“My son is still up there. The sooner I get Calli taken care of, the sooner I can get back out to the forest and find out what’s happening with Ben.”

“Is their father in the picture?” she asks, and I listen closely to her voice, searching for any judgmental undertones. I don’t hear any.

“He is, but he’s away on a fishing trip. I can’t get a hold of him,” I explain.

“Oh, that’s too bad.” She resumes attending to Calli. “How old is your boy?”

“He’s twelve,” I respond, inching closer to Calli.

“People are up there looking for him?”

I nod. “And another little girl. What would you do?” I ask this kind woman who is taking an interest in me.

“You have any family here in town?”

“No, it’s just the four of us.”

“Friends you can call?”

“No,” I whisper, and once again loneliness presses in around me and for the first time I am truly aware of the isolation I have found in my own hometown.

“My name is Rose Callahan. I’m off at ten,” she tells me. “Once the doctors and nurses get Calli checked over and settled in, I’d be glad to sit with her. I’m sure they will keep her over for observation. She may be pretty dehydrated after being up in the woods all day. You see how when I pinch the back of Calli’s hand, the skin doesn’t immediately lay flat again? That’s called skin turgor, a sign of dehydration. It’s easily remedied, but we need to keep a close eye on her. I really would be glad to sit with her if you need to be somewhere else.”

I hesitate and do not respond to her offer.

“Everyone at the hospital knows me. I have three grandkids of my own, but they live out west.”

“I don’t know,” I begin.

“If you need me, you call me. I’ll give you my phone number. And please call me. I don’t have anyone here in town anymore, either. Are you from Willow Creek?”

“I was born and grew up here.” We pull into the ambulance unloading area; Rose jots her number down on a scrap of paper and hands it to me.

“You call me, understand? If you need anything, you call me.”

“I will, thank you,” I tell her as some attendants come, gently lift Calli from the ambulance and wheel her into the hospital emergency room as Rose and her partner fill them in on Calli’s situation.

“This is Toni Clark, Calli’s mother,” Rose informs them.

“Please come with me, Ms. Clark,” a male nurse instructs me and I follow him into an examination room. I turn back to wave at Rose, but she is already gone. “Tell me what happened here with Calli,” he asks.

“I’m not really sure what happened. She wasn’t in her bed this morning, and we couldn’t find her. Another little girl, Petra Gregory, is still on the bluff. The police have been looking for them all day. She came running down from the woods, like…this,” I say, indicating her scratched legs and bleeding feet, her dirty nightgown.

“Was she able to tell you what happened?”

“No.” I shake my head. “But she said her brother’s name, ‘Ben.’ He’s still up there.”

The nurse looks confused. “Both your children were missing?”

“No, just Calli and her friend, not Ben. He went looking for them. Calli came out, Ben didn’t. Not yet.” I am so tired; the entire story makes little sense even to me. “The police are up there looking for them.”

“I’m sure a police officer will be here shortly,” the nurse assures me. “He or she will most likely question Calli about what she remembers about today. We will get her checked out and cleaned up before that happens.”

“All right, thank you,” I tell him.

“Dr. Higby will be right in.” The nurse leaves me in the brightly lit examination room, alone with Calli, and I try to brush her matted hair away from her forehead.

Calli tries to curl herself up into a tight little ball, but this is difficult as the examination table is narrow. She shoves a grimy thumb into her mouth and every few moments her eyelids flutter, as if trying to open, but they remain closed. I hear the door open behind me and in steps a man, the doctor, I assume, as he is wearing a white lab coat. He is completely bald, his head gleaming underneath the fluorescent lights. He wears glasses with red frames and a tie decorated with smiley faces.

“I’m Dr. Higby,” he introduces himself. He holds his hand out to me and I shake it. He has a powerful grip and I am struck by how much his hand looks like Griff’s, strong and coarse from manual labor. “Tell me about who we have here,” he says, looking down at Calli who is trying to warm herself by pulling the sheet that covers her more tightly about her.

“This is Calli Clark. I’m Toni, her mother. She’s been out lost in the woods all day. I don’t know what happened to her.”

“Was she found like this?”

“She came out of the woods on her own, but she was exhausted. She fell asleep the moment she was off her feet.”

Dr. Higby refers to the notes in a chart he holds. “Her vital signs look strong. Let’s check her over and see what we have here. We’re going to have to wake her up, Mrs. Clark,” he says apologetically. “Having her awake and able to tell us where it hurts will help us treat her. Would you like to be the one to wake her? She would probably find it frightening to wake up to this scary mug of mine.” He smiles at me.

“Calli, honey.” I go to her side and rub her shoulder. “Calli, I need you to wake up now.” I gently try to pull the sheet from her and her eyes open, instantly awake, her eyes dart around in panic. “It’s okay, Calli, Mom’s here,” I croon. “You’re at the hospital. We need you to wake up so you can let us know where it hurts. This is Dr. Higby. He’s going to help you feel better.”

Dr. Higby steps into Calli’s line of vision and she watches him carefully for a moment, taking in the red glasses and his tie.

“Hello, Calli, I’m Dr. Higby. Just like your mom said, I’m going to check you over to see if you are hurt anywhere. I hear you’ve had a pretty scary day.”

Calli gives no response, but continues to observe the doctor. “I want you to know, Calli, that you are completely safe here,” Dr. Higby assures her. “Nothing bad is going to happen here. We all are here to help you, okay?” Calli does not answer.

“Dr. Higby, may I speak with you a moment? Calli, we’ll be right out here. You okay?” She nods and Dr. Higby follows me out into the hall.

“Calli doesn’t talk. I mean, she spoke for the first time in four years today. She said her brother’s name. It’s all she said, but that’s huge for us. I’m not sure what to expect now, if she’ll talk all the time now or what.”

“Calli’s a selective mute?” he asks. “There’s no physical reason for her not talking?”

“That’s what we’ve been told. I’d almost given up hope in her ever talking again, but she did today. She said her brother’s name.” I feel a renewed sense of excitement and hope in telling Dr. Higby this.

“It is very good news that Calli spoke. I have a very limited experience with selective mutism, Mrs. Clark, but we have a psychiatrist on staff who may be more informed on the subject. Would you like for me to call her and have her visit with you?”

“Calli isn’t crazy,” I tell him, my initial liking of the man fading quickly.

“No, of course not. I didn’t mean to imply that. Dr. Kelsing is a medical doctor with a wide expertise. She could be very helpful.” Dr. Higby waits patiently for me to mull this over.

“You think she’s good?” I ask. “You think she could help Calli?”

“I implicitly trust her judgment, Mrs. Clark,” he responds.

“All right, then, I’d like to meet her,” I say as I notice two police officers come through the emergency room doors.

“I’ll call her immediately and then we’ll get to work on fixing up Calli.” He pats my arm and goes to contact Dr. Kelsing.

The two officers confer with the emergency room receptionist and make their way over to me as I peek in the examination room to check on Calli. She waggles her fingers at me in a halfhearted wave and I smile at her and hold up a finger to tell her that I’ll be right back. I meet the officers back in the hallway. Their faces are familiar to me, and I recognize them as being several years behind me in school.

“Mrs. Clark?” the taller officer asks. I nod. “I’m Officer Bies and this is Officer Thumser. I think you went to school with my sister, Cheryl.”

I nod distractedly. “Did you find my son?” I ask anxiously.

“Yes, Mrs. Clark. He’s on his way now to be checked out here at the hospital.”

“Is he okay?” I ask, my heart thumping.

“It appears he’s fine, Mrs. Clark. He should be here within the next hour or so. We need to talk to your daughter, ma’am.”

“Did you find Petra? Is Petra okay?”

“I’m sorry, I can’t share any information about Petra Gregory at this time. Mrs. Clark, we really need to see your daughter. She is crucial to this investigation.”

At this moment Dr. Higby reappears. “Hello, Mike, Russ. What can I do for you tonight?” he asks.

“We were just explaining to Mrs. Clark that we need to visit with Calli about what happened to her today.”

“We need to make sure that Calli’s condition is stable before anyone speaks with her. You can understand that.”

“Yes, we understand. How long till you think she can talk to us?”

Dr. Higby and I look at each other and I nod to him, giving him permission to share Calli’s situation.

“Calli’s a reluctant speaker. She may not be able to tell you what you want to know. We have a consultant coming in to help us. We are going to need to proceed very slowly with her.”

The officers’ disappointment is apparent, but they are wise enough to say nothing. “Could you give us a call when you feel she’s ready to see us? It really is important. And, Mrs. Clark, we’ll need to visit with your son after he gets checked out. And you, as well.”

“Me?” I ask. “Why me?”

“Just follow-up questions. We finally located Roger Hogan, your husband’s fishing buddy. Mr. Hogan didn’t offer much, but your husband wasn’t with him. Good luck, Mrs. Clark,” the tall officer tells me. “I’m glad your little girl is back safe and sound.”

I freeze for a moment, trying to process that news. Griff isn’t with Roger? Where is he, then? I don’t allow myself to consider what it means. Dr. Higby and I return to Calli’s side. Calli is wide-awake now, trembling from the cold of the room.

“I know it’s cold in here, Calli,” Dr. Higby says. “We’ll get you all fixed up and nice and cozy soon. We’ll tell you exactly what is going to happen before it happens, okay? That way, if you have any questions, you can ask.”

A young nurse enters the room. She has a cheerful smile and wears pink scrubs. “Hi, Calli, my name is Molly. I’m going to be your nurse while you’re here. I’ll be with you every step of the way.” Calli looks quickly to me and snatches at my hand.

“Don’t worry, honey, your mom can stay with you the whole time,” Molly assures her.

Dr. Higby pats me on the back and excuses himself. “Sometimes the patients feel more comfortable if only females are in the room. I’ll check back in with you soon.” He gives me a sympathetic smile and leaves us.

I bend down to kiss her and for the first time that evening I notice the smell of urine on her. My stomach clenches at the thought of what happened today.

“Now, the first thing we need to do is get you out of that nightgown and into this lovely gown.” Molly carefully removes Calli’s pink nightgown and places it in a plastic bag. Calli loves this nightgown; I often find her wearing it in the middle of the day. I think she likes the way that it swirls around her as she moves. When she doesn’t know that I am watching, I see Calli dancing in her pink nightgown to music that only she can hear. She is graceful and delicate and when she dances she reminds me of the dandelion fluff we catch and then release to make wishes. I always make the same wish on her as she leaps and twirls—please speak to me, Calli, please speak. I silently vow to buy Calli the most beautiful nightgown I can find. One that feels like silk next to her skin and flows like water around her as she moves.

“Now, Calli, I’m going to give you an exam. Do you know what an exam is?” Molly asks. Calli gives a slight nod of her head. “Oh, of course you do. How old are you? Sixteen? Seventeen?” Calli smiles, shakes her head and holds up seven fingers.

“Seven?” Molly asks. “I’m shocked. You seem so much older.” Again Calli smiles. I like this Molly right away. “Now, Calli, I’m going to go from the tip-top of your head right down to your little piggy toes and ask you if anything specifically hurts. You just let me know yes or no, okay?” Again Calli nods.

“I can tell you’re going to be a super patient. Okay, let’s get started. First of all, does your hair hurt?” Calli wrinkles her nose and looks at Molly in disbelief. “Well, does it?” she asks again.

Calli shakes her head no.

“Good! That’s good news. How about your head, does anywhere on your head or neck hurt?” Again Calli shakes her head no. I can see Calli is enjoying this game and by the time Molly gets down to Calli’s piggy toes, we have learned that the only places Calli feels any pain are in her stomach and in her feet.

Molly quietly explains that she would have to collect evidence from Calli. When she says the words rape kit my stomach lurches.

“Is that necessary?” I ask numbly.

“We need to rule out any assault that may have occurred and we need to gather any evidence that may have been left behind. I’ll be very gentle. And you can stay here with her,” Molly assures me as she pulls on a pair of latex gloves.

Molly takes a long oversize Q-tip and asks Calli to open her mouth. She swiftly swabs Calli’s cheeks and horrific thoughts charge through my mind. I try to push them away. Methodically, carefully, Molly moves down along my daughter’s body, combing, scraping and collecting the grime and dreadfulness of the day. I force myself to watch, to watch what my inattentiveness has caused. I force myself to watch now because I have not watched my child closely enough; she has spent the day in the forest running, running from something terrible. Did he catch her or was she fast enough? Please have been fast enough, I silently recite over and over. When the exam is finally complete I have read every furrow in my daughter’s face, the confusion and the unasked questions. I have no words for Calli. I cannot think of one useful, comforting word for my daughter during this intrusion and we are both silent.

“I don’t see any obvious indication of sexual assault, but we’ll send the swabs to the lab.” I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Maybe it will be okay. Molly continues, “They’ll let us know for sure. Her feet are cut up pretty badly. After we take X-rays, we’ll clean them and wrap them up tight,” she explains to me. To Calli she says, “You’ll feel a lot better, I bet, after you have a bath, won’t you, Calli? We’ll also get you something good to eat after X-rays. Sound good?” Calli bobs her head yes. I am hopeful that she will answer in words, but she does not. I need to be patient. At least now I know she can talk when she really needs to and I hold on to that fact.

Molly situates Calli onto a gurney and we make the journey toward X-ray. I notice that night has arrived in full force as we pass by the emergency room doors and I think again of Ben and Petra up on that bluff. I stop at the emergency registration desk to see if they had any word on Ben and the woman behind the counter tells me that Ben will soon be on his way to the hospital.

“He’ll catch a ride in the back of a police car and doesn’t need to be transported by ambulance. That’s good news,” she informs me. “He must be doing quite well, Mrs. Clark.”

Relief shoots through me. “That is good news. Can someone come find me when he gets here? I’m going to X-ray with Calli now.”

“Sure thing. And sometime, when you get a few moments, there is some paperwork for you to fill out. Don’t worry about it until you get everything settled with your children.”

“Thank you,” I tell her. Everyone is so kind here and I briefly wish to be admitted here myself so people can fuss over me.

As Molly pushes Calli down the hallway, I see Dr. Higby with a woman coming our way. She is an older woman, perhaps in her early sixties, with iron-gray hair, glasses and beautiful skin. My mother’s skin had looked that way before she became ill, but I had never taken the time to appreciate it.

“Mrs. Clark, this is Dr. Kelsing,”Dr. Higby introduces me to the woman. “We share Dr. Kelsing with the hospital in Winner.”

“Nice to meet you, Dr. Kelsing.”

“I’m pleased to meet you, as well, Mrs. Clark. I understand that Calli has had a pretty rough day.”

“Yes, she has.” I suddenly feel shy under Dr. Kelsing’s gaze. Her eyes are sharp and intelligent and I have the feeling that few could pull anything over on her.

“Families who experience extremely stressful events such as yours are typically very hesitant to accept outside help. Most often they try to pull their family unit more tightly together in order to deal with the experience, try to deal with the effects on their own.”

We are outside the X-ray room when Molly says to Calli, “Calli, honey, we need to take your pictures now. We would like your mom to stand out here, because we don’t need to take her picture today. Just yours. You’ll be able to see her through this window, though, okay? You all right with that?” Calli nods yes.

“I’ll be right out here, Calli, watching you through the window,” I assure her. Molly wheels Calli into the X-ray room and I watch as they situate my little girl on the table, bending her arms and legs in different directions, trying to get the best angle for the picture. Calli looks so small, so young. The reality of it all burns at the back of my eyes and I press my fingers to my eyelids. I do not want to cry in front of these strangers.

I turn back to Dr. Kelsing. “I know I can’t do this on my own. Can you help us? Can you help Calli continue to speak?”

“I can’t promise you anything, Mrs. Clark, but we can work together to do what you decide is best for Calli. I have had some experience with selective mutism. I have information about it that may be useful for you, if you’d like.”

For some odd, unknown reason, I decide to trust this woman who has skin like my own mother’s. “I’m scared,” I tell her, struggling not to cry. “I’m so scared to find out why she stopped talking in the first place. But I’m even more scared…” The tears spill over and I bite my lip, willing them to stop. Dr. Kelsing does not speak, but waits for me to compose myself, and I like her even more for it. “I’m even more scared to find out what happened out in the woods that caused her to start to talk again.”

DEPUTY SHERIFF LOUIS

I watch as Martin struggles to keep it together as his daughter is lifted away by the helicopter. After she is out of sight and we can only hear the hum of the helicopter blades, he turns to me and says, “I have to get off this bluff. I need to get to Fielda and tell her that Petra is going to be all right.”

“We’ll ride the four-wheelers down. It will be quicker, and then I’ll drive you to Fielda first thing,” I tell him.

Awkwardly, Martin straddles the four-wheeler and clasps his arms around the officer who will transport him down the bluff. The officer gives Martin directions over his shoulder to hold on tightly to him, then the two are off into the thick of the forest. I hope that all will be well with Petra. She didn’t look good to me and I knew the stress of the transfer in the helicopter could be more than her little body could take. I walk over to where Ben is resting against the trunk of a tree. I can’t tell if he is sleeping or not, so I squat down next to him and shine my flashlight near his face to check. He is awake. The beating he has taken hits me full force as I take in his discolored cheek and swollen nose and eyes. Splattered blood stains his torn shirt and he is holding his side gingerly.

“Ben, how’re you doing? You ready to go down now? You think you can ride down on a four-wheeler?” I ask him.

“I think so,” he answers and I help him to his feet. “Can I ride down with you?” he asks. I look at my fellow officers and they nod in assent. The two of them climb onto one four-wheeler while I assist Ben in getting on the other.

“You hold on real tight, okay? Wrap your arms around me. If I go too fast and you want me to slow down, just squeeze me tight. I know you’re in a lot of pain, Ben, so let me know if you need to rest, all right?”

“All right,” he answers. “I just wanna get home and see Mom and see if Calli’s okay.”

“I’ll get you down there as soon as I can. Ready? Hold on.” I slowly ease my way into the forest. It is dark, probably much too dark to be traveling by four-wheeler, but we have little choice. We need to get Martin to Fielda and then to Petra, and we need to get Ben back to his mother. I have a feeling that Martin may have busted a few of Ben’s ribs when he tackled him. I hope that Toni will be able to forgive Martin that. It was a horrific sight, seeing Ben standing in front of Petra, holding that stick. If I hadn’t known Ben, I think that I would have jumped to the same conclusion that Martin had.

The light from the four-wheeler does little to illuminate the trail and I think that we might be better off ditching the quad and walking our way out, but we are making decent time. I know that the trail will become more even, less steep, the farther we go. I am sure that Ben can feel the pounding of my heart as he leans against my back. I have no clear vision of what is ahead of us and I can’t hear any noise except that of the engine and of sticks snapping as they crush beneath the wheels. I feel that I am both blind and deaf and I am more frightened than I care to admit. If what Ben has told us is true, then Griff is somewhere in these woods hiding, perhaps waiting to pounce. In my mind he is capable of most anything. I remove one hand from the handlebars and pat my revolver, double-checking that I have quick access to it.

“What about my dad?” Ben says over the engine.

“We’re just worrying about you and Petra and Calli right now,” I call back, hoping that Griff isn’t lurking behind some tree, overhearing what I’d just said. “It will be very difficult to find him tonight. We’ll go back out full force in the morning to find him. Don’t worry, Ben, I won’t let him hurt you.”

“I’m not worried,” he says. But I hear the drop in his voice, the uncertainty in his tone. I pat his hands that are wrapped around my waist, and I speed up; we are minutes now from the bottom.

Out of the corner of my eye I see something. The glow from the headlights of the four-wheeler shine briefly on a figure crouched among the trees. For an instant I think it could be a mountain lion, but that doesn’t make sense; mountain lions have not been seen in these woods for decades, well before I had even moved to Willow Creek. The angles and posture of the form are too human and I briefly consider stopping, but Ben is clinging to me and my first responsibility is to get him safely out of the forest. I take the four-wheeler up a notch and feel Ben tighten his grip around me. I don’t think he has seen what I have, but I’m not going to bring up the subject; Ben is going to have enough nightmares as it is, he doesn’t need me fueling more fears. I radio in a message that would be cryptic to Ben and any average listener, but the gist of it is that I need backup for when I return to the woods, after I drop Ben off at the bottom.

At the base of the bluff I hand Ben off to Deputy Roper, the same deputy who is Griff’s good friend. Logan knows that we are on the lookout for Griff, but he doesn’t know that Ben has told me Griff is in those woods, was the one who had beat him senseless, who most likely hurt Petra Gregory.

“Logan, can you transport Ben here to the hospital in Willow Creek? We need to get him checked out. His mother is there waiting for him.”

Logan looks at me suspiciously. “You got a suspect back in there?”

“Maybe. Tucci, Dunn and I are going back in to check a few things out. How ’bout it? Can you take Ben to town?”

“Sure,” Logan answers. I can tell he doesn’t want to, but he can hardly refuse to help the son of one of his good friends. “Ben, boy, you really got messed up. Who did this to you?” Logan asks.

Ben knows enough not to tell Logan that Griff, in fact, had been the one to mess him up. He just shrugs his shoulders and then winces at the pain the movement causes.

I see Ben settle into the back of the cruiser and I poke my head into the open door. “Your mom is waiting for you at the hospital. So is Calli. You don’t worry about things out here. We’ll take care of everything. You just look after your mom and sister. They’re really going to need you now, Ben.”

“Okay,” Ben says softly and I pat his shoulder before I close the car door. Poor kid, I think, then stop myself. I had hated it when people whispered that about me. It got to be so that I could tell when people were just thinking poor kid, could tell just by the sad look in their eyes after my dad had died. I open the car door again and lean forward. “You’re a strong kid, Ben,” I tell him. “I’m proud of you. Your mom and Calli are very lucky to have you.” He doesn’t respond, doesn’t even look at me, but I see his shoulders straighten slightly. He’ll be fine.

“Ready?” I ask Tucci and Dunn as Logan pulls away with Ben. They are, and we head back into the forest, this time on foot and with flashlights in hand.

MARTIN

Too quickly, the sound of the helicopter has disappeared. My Petra is gone. I had found her, and then had to let her go again. I am at a loss as to how I had ended up on the back of a four-wheeler, crashing through the forest with my arms wrapped around a perfect stranger.

And now I am in a police car, traveling at a maddeningly slow speed to my mother-in-law’s home. The kind officer has offered to go and tell Fielda on my behalf so that I could arrive more quickly at the hospital in Iowa City, but I say no and thank him. I want to tell Fielda that Petra is alive, hurt, but on her way to a place where the medical personnel can help her. My daughter is being carted off to a hospital that I have never visited, in a town that I have never entered before. The number of people I am entrusting my daughter to is staggering: pilot, nurses, doctors, and I know eventually the police officers will want to question her about what happened today. I wonder if she has awoken. She was not conscious when I first found her, her beautiful face so bruised and distorted that if I had not seen her curly, black hair, matted with what I now know to be blood, I might have mistaken her for another unfortunate child. Her breathing was regular, and that was all that really mattered to me, that she was living. The cuts, the contusions…the damage that was done to her, I can cope with, even though I push the very thought of what may have happened, what I will to not have happened out of my mind. She was breathing, sweet, warm breaths and I will send her mother to her. Fielda will make it all better; she will be a comfort to Petra. I, on the other hand, will return to the forest. I will return and find the monster that has done this to my family. It will not matter that the man is Calli and Ben’s father, or Antonia’s husband. That will be of little consequence to me. I will find him and I will kill him.

ANTONIA

Dr. Kelsing remained by my side as Calli finished with her X-rays and says she will return after Calli is all cleaned up and settled for the evening. I thank her and ask if I should try to get Calli to talk.

“No, just be with her for now, just be her mother. Talk to her as you always have. Ask her questions, but don’t expect verbal answers. She needs to feel safe. Knowing that you are with her will go a long way to making her feel safe. I’ll check back with you shortly.”

Molly begins gently to clean Calli’s cut feet. Her feet are coated with dirt, dust and dried blood and it is difficult at first to tell the extent of the damage to them, but as Molly lightly begins to wash away the filth it is quite apparent that Calli will need stitches, and that it will be a very long time until her feet are fully healed. I try not to gasp at the sight of the deep punctures and gouges in the bottom of Calli’s feet and at the livid red welts that crisscross the tops of her feet. The nail of her big toe is torn clean away. Calli goes rigid and begins to shake in either cold or in pain, I suspect both. She begins to cry silently.

“It’s going to be okay, Calli,” I tell her, finding my voice, stepping in front of her line of vision so she will not have to see what Molly is doing down there. I rub her arms to try and warm her.

“Calli, I’m just getting your feet cleaned up so you don’t get a nasty infection in them. I know it’s no fun. Just hang tight, okay?” Molly explains.

Calli nods bravely, wraps her arms around my neck and squeezes.

“That’s right, Calli,” I whisper in her ear. “Hold tight. I’m right here.”

Calli’s back arches and she begins kicking and struggling to pull away from Molly.

“Whoa, Calli, I need you to try and stay still. I know it hurts,” Molly says soothingly, despite the fact that Calli’s foot strikes her in the chin. As much as I like Molly, I feel relief that Calli still has some fight left in her.

Dr. Higby enters the room, comes over to Calli and smiles at her and moves to ruffle her hair. Calli cowers and buries her head in my chest and Dr. Higby pulls his hand back.

“That’s okay, Calli. I guess I wouldn’t want anyone rubbing my head if I felt the way you do right now, either,” Dr. Higby says jovially. He washes his hands in the small sink in the corner of the room and pulls on a pair of latex gloves. “Calli, I’m going to give you a little medicine right now. It will help your feet take a nap.”

Calli peeks up at Dr. Higby doubtfully.

“Well, they’re not going to start snoring or anything.” Calli’s mouth twitches at this. “But they will feel numb,” Dr. Higby continues. “You won’t feel any pain in them at all in a few minutes.” I feel Calli relax slightly in my arms.

As Dr. Higby and Molly mend Calli’s feet, I speak to my daughter. I whisper to her all the favorite stories she loves to hear and I love to tell her. I tell her about the night she was born and the incredible thunderstorm that blew into town the minute I went into labor.

“It was the strangest storm for October. The day began gray, but warm. You weren’t due to arrive for three more weeks, but I felt the familiar twinges, the slight pulling across the top of my abdomen, the ache in my back. It was just like it was with Ben, but this time I knew more of what to expect. Daddy was home from Alaska and he was so excited for you to arrive. He kept fidgeting around the house, trying to find things to do. I swear he oiled every squeaky door in the house, caulked the bathroom floor and cleaned the leaves out of the gutters. He kept asking me if I was all right, if the baby was coming now and I would say no. Not for a long time, I told him.