Big Woods Page 19
I feel silly now that I didn’t think that was strange, the way she said goodbye, and that it didn’t occur to me to call her mother, or to even question that she was out of school in the middle of the day.
And then the next day while I was upstairs stripping the sheets off the bed for the laundry—my usual Friday routine—the doorbell rang. I rushed downstairs but by the time I opened the door, there was no one there. I looked down and saw that a gift had been left for me, wrapped in shiny red wrapping paper out on my stoop. As I stepped out to pick it up, I glanced down the street and saw Leah’s blue Tempo pulling away.
How sweet, I thought, the girl brought me a Christmas present, and for a moment I let myself enjoy the fantasy that she and I might become friends of a sort. I went back inside and sat down at the kitchen table and unwrapped it.
At first I was puzzled. Why would she bring me her diary? But once I read it—which I did in one sitting, breathlessly—I understood. She knew I was the one person who would believe her.
And I did. I read about the dreams and when I got to the part where Lucy appeared to her in a dream and told her that she was in the bad church, I knew without a lick of doubt that Hank—or Owen, rather—had her in the church cellar.
But my throat closed up when I thought about telling all that to the sheriff just now.
“Have you had any contact with Leah Spencer?” Sheriff Greene asked, his voice weary.
“Yes, yes I have,” I said, my mouth going dry. “She stopped by this past Thursday.”
All the officers looked up at me then, in surprise, and they each straightened up, cats coiled above their prey.
“This would be the twenty-first? And what was the nature of her visit? Why did she stop by?” the sheriff asked, jotting down notes in his notepad.
I started to speak but couldn’t find the words. I looked down at my hands, they were shaking. I didn’t want to talk about this in front of the other officers, so I looked squarely at the sheriff and asked, “May I speak to you in private?”
The other officers looked befuddled, but Sheriff Greene didn’t miss a beat, picking up my meaning. “Excuse us,” he said to his deputies, as he followed me down the hallway toward the kitchen, closing the door behind us.
I leaned against the countertop for support, afraid I might swoon. “I believe I know what happened to Leah,” I said in a low voice.
The sheriff nodded for me to go on.
I drew in a deep breath and continued. “I told her everything. I told her about that girl from years ago, Delia, about the police in Starrville, about the sex ring,” I said, my voice shaky. “I told her, obviously, and unfortunately, exactly where the cemetery is.”
This time, he didn’t look at me like I was crazy; he just studied me for a moment, chewing thoughtfully on his mustache.
“So I believe those same men have her,” I offered, my voice now bolder. “Those same men who took Delia.”
The sheriff met my eyes and held my gaze. I was shaking, and he placed a gentle hand on my shoulder. I couldn’t tell if the gesture was condescending or conciliatory, if he was being sincere or merely trying to comfort a senile old woman.
“Thank you for cooperating with us, Sylvia,” he said, his voice stable and calm. “If you think of anything else, give me a call.”
He turned to leave and I was just about to tell him about Owen and the church cellar, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t force the words from my mouth; I’m not certain he would’ve believed me anyway. And there’s no time for that anymore: Leah is out there, and she’s out there because of me, because of what I’ve told her. So I’m going out there, too.
And there’s also something else that held me back from telling him, something that’s harder to name, something even murkier, but that something is this: I want my face to be the one Owen sees before he’s captured and exposed.
He’s a monster, I know, but he’s a monster I couldn’t stop, and monster or not, I’m still his mother and I might just be his soul’s one last shot at salvation, if only I can talk to him. Maybe I can reason with him—tell him I’ll do my best to protect him, convince him to hand the girls over to me. If they are even still alive. I don’t know, I’m not thinking clearly and there is still a small, irrational part of me that hopes he’s not involved, that he stopped all of this after Delia, that he doesn’t have the girls at all. So I must go out there.
But because I know that’s unlikely, and because I know he’ll kill me if he does have them, I cross the room and go over to the rolltop desk. I sit down and tear off a sheet of fresh stationery and compose a letter to Sheriff Greene.
Dear Sheriff Greene,
I didn’t tell you everything. I have my reasons and I hope you’ll understand.
I believe a man by the name of Owen Goforth—the Reverend Owen Goforth—has the girls and is keeping them locked in his church cellar. The name of his church is the Starrville Church of Christ. Look there.
He is not a good man. How do I know?
He is my son.
My hands are shaking and I realize I’ve been holding in my breath as I’ve been writing. I sign the bottom of the letter and seal it, and climb the stairs.
I step into my bedroom and pull Leah’s diary off the top of my dresser. I mark the pages that I think the sheriff needs to see, and then place it together with the letter.
I get dressed in heavy winter clothes and then go over to my bedside table. There is a framed picture of John, taken on our honeymoon—his eyes are a glittering blue, his smile flirty with new love—and I lift the picture and press it to my lips, then hug it to my chest before setting it back down. Tears are spilling down my cheeks and I sit on the edge of my bed, sobbing.
I wipe my eyes and take a few deep breaths and stare out the window. The roof of my neighbor’s house is lined with sparkling Christmas lights, still on from the night before. I watch the branches of their bare trees rattle in the wind, and think of Leah and Lucy out there in the cold.
After a few moments, I pick up the receiver on my powder-blue bedside phone and punch in Hattie’s number. I’m not going to tell her what I’m up to; I just want to hear her voice. It rings and rings though, and when she doesn’t answer, I leave a message and say goodbye. I want so badly to say goodbye to someone.
68
Sylvia
I’m in my station wagon, driving through town, headed for the post office. It’s so cold out that even with my heater blasting, the car is an ice box, my cheeks red from the chill. Before I left the house, I wrapped the diary with the letter in brown packing paper, covered it with stamps, and addressed it to Sheriff Greene, care of the Longview Police Department.
I pull into the post office parking lot and ease up to the blue drop box, the legs of which are wrapped in red and silver tinsel. I roll my window down. Wind punches me in the face and I drop the package down the shoot; it lands with a dull thud. I take a deep breath. I hope I’m doing the right thing.
The drive to Starrville passes in a quick blur—my mind swirling with thoughts of Leah and Lucy, about what I’m about to step into—and before I know it, I’m turning down the bumpy country lane that leads to the church.
I slow the car. My breath is quick and shallow, my palms sweaty with fear. I arrive at the church and see just a few cars parked out front. In the front lawn there is a handpainted wooden sign that reads, CHRISTMAS PROGRAM: SUNRISE SERVICE 7 A.M. & REGULAR SERVICE 11 A.M.
It’s 8:35 a.m. I pull to the curb and park under a hulking oak tree. The front doors to the church are open, but it looks empty. The congregation has already filtered out into the gray light. I scan the remaining crowd for Owen but don’t see him. There are just a few kids monkeying around on the chipped and weathered swing set, their parents chatting on the sidewalk as they play.
My heart is thudding in my chest but I open the car door and head down the cracked, weed-c
hoked sidewalk. My eyes fixate on the cellar door, which is next to the church, separated by a path, but I walk past it. I want to have a peek inside the church first.
I step into the musty sanctuary and walk casually up the center aisle. The hymnals are all neatly tucked in place along the backs of the wooden church pews, and there are just a few church bulletins scattered about, papering the floor.
When I reach the pulpit, I turn in front of it and head down a dimly lit hallway that leads to the church offices. I’m jumpy and feel like at every turn I’m going to run into Owen.
It seems that I’m alone, though.
I stop outside a broom closet, and for some reason my hand is drawn to the knob. Shaking, I twist it and fling open the door. A dirty mop is resting in a bucket of gray water and the shelves are lined with cleaning supplies. I’m starting to feel silly. But when I close the door, a short, prim woman with a matronly, squat face is on the other side and my breath catches.
“Help you with somethin’, ma’am?” she asks, eyeing me suspiciously.
“Yes, as a matter of fact,” I say, the lie pouring out of me with no effort. “I’m looking for my mother.”
Her thin, dark eyebrows knit together in confusion, but I stammer out the words before she has too much time to think. “As you can imagine, she is quite old. She lives in the nursing home, just there in town, and I was supposed to come and visit her this morning for Christmas. And well,” I say, wringing my hands dramatically, “I was late. And with all the chaos of the holiday, and all the visitors in the lobby, she slipped out before anybody noticed.”
“Oh dear,” she said, sucking in a quick breath. “By all means have a look around. But I haven’t seen her, and in fact, I’m the only one here. Well, me and the Reverend. But he just slipped out back, actually, headed for home.”
Goose bumps line my arms and I feel like I’m going to be sick. I crane my head around hers to look out the warbled glass of the back door, but I don’t see Owen.
“I’m going to look outside now, thank you,” I say and step around her and walk toward the back door. I push it open and climb down a small flight of stairs covered in dingy outdoor carpet. I scan the grounds for Owen but I don’t see him anywhere. He must already be gone.
“Mother? Mother?” I call out to the edge of the woods, just in case the woman is listening to me.
I walk over to the cellar and kneel down next to the door. There’s a rusted lock on it, but it’s not latched. I can feel the woman’s eyes on me, and when I turn back to the church, I see her move past a window. Now she’s coming out the back door and is heading toward me.
I get on my feet and smooth back my hair. “I know this must look ridiculous,” I say, smiling, “but I’d like to have a look in the cellar. Mother can get awful turned around sometimes.”
The woman’s eyes trail to the cellar door. She pauses for a second too long, and my blood turns cold. She looks at me and narrows her eyes. Sweat beads on my upper lip. “I know this is silly,” I say, my voice small and raspy, “but it really would make me feel better if I could just check the cellar.”
The woman stands there parked, her spotted, wrinkled hand on her hip, but what can she say? She looks down at the cellar and nods with permission, walks over to it, and removes the lock. I feel like she is going to continue hovering over me, but when she opens the white buckled doors, the smell of rotting flesh hits us both in the face and she grabs her stomach and says, “Must be a dead rat. I’ll leave you to it.” She turns and walks away.
69
Leah
I thought the old lady was kooky at first. She answered her door in a faded blue bathrobe and looked so startled and confused that for a moment, I thought I might have had the wrong house. I glanced down at the slip of paper I’d scribbled her address on to make sure I was in the right place and I was just about to open my mouth to ask when she stepped out and said in a bright voice, “Forgive me, Leah, I’m just so surprised to see you. But I’m so glad you’ve come.”
She opened the door and invited me inside, but I asked if we could sit on the porch instead. I didn’t know what to expect and I felt more comfortable outside.
“I heard what you said the other day, when you came to our house,” I said. “That you know what happened. And I thought …” My voice wavered. “Well, I hoped, anyway, that you might be talking about my sister.”
The old woman just nodded and pulled her fingers through her white, frizzy hair and rocked back and forth in her chair, her eyes fixed on a faraway location. She then let out a calm sigh before going into a long, wild story. She had been a nurse, she told me, and had once met a terrified young girl who said she’d been held captive by a group of powerful men. She went into this girl’s history, her name, her background, and I was just about to interrupt her and stand to leave when she started telling me about the cemetery.
“They conduct their dark rituals out there, on Friday evenings,” she said, her eyes wide. “It’s out on Omen Road.” She then described, in vivid detail, the stretch of Omen Road that leads to the cemetery—you pass a church, then a red barn—and I knew all at once that she was describing the road Lucy kept showing me in my dreams.
My pulse was racing and I sat up and asked her to go on. At one point she stepped inside to make us tea, and when she came back out she had a crumpled map to the cemetery that she let me study as she pushed a tray of butterscotch candies across the table at me. It was strangely warm outside, the day drowsy with heat, and while I listened to her speak, I felt like I’d slipped into another time.
“I tried to tell the sheriff,” she said, her face darkening.
But no one had believed her. I knew how she felt.
She also told me that she had gone out to the cemetery herself and had seen the signs of the rituals that the girl had described to her. “They all thought she was crazy,” she said. “But I, I knew she wasn’t. And then,” she continued, “I lost her.”
She told me, with real terror in her eyes, that she had gone out to the cemetery once at night, looking for the girl, and that she had been threatened by men in hoods and robes—and that the men knew where she lived. And the whole time we talked she kept glancing around as if she were looking out for them.
I felt such gratefulness and warmth toward her that when I stood up to leave, tears misted my eyes and I hugged her neck tightly and thanked her.
Once I knew where Lucy was, I couldn’t wait around to convince someone to believe me; I had to go find her. I went straight home from Sylvia’s and began packing the car. I pitched my puffy black coat in the backseat, in case it turned cold, and set out my mint-green high-top Reeboks. I wanted to pack light, but I tossed a blanket in the trunk and had visions of wrapping Lucy in it and driving her home.
As Mom was leaving for work the next morning, I tried to act casual, but my heart fluttered and I almost faltered and told her my plans and begged her to go with me. But instead, I pulled her into me as hot tears flooded my eyes and gave her a good, hard hug, one last time.
I stood in the chilly entryway and watched as she drove away before stepping outside and locking the house. A cold front had blasted through and the sky was a dull gray, the sun hidden behind a patchwork of low, shifting clouds.
Sylvia had told me that the men gathered at the cemetery on Friday nights after sunset. I wanted to be in place long before then, so my plan was to get there earlier. I slipped away from school during last period, unnoticed—so many kids were already gone, the Friday before Christmas, that I knew my teacher wouldn’t question it—and drove across town to Sylvia’s before heading out. I pulled to the curb and quietly closed the car door behind me. I set my diary—which I’d wrapped neatly as a gift—on the top step of her front porch and rang the doorbell before leaving.
I wanted her to have it. I wanted someone to know what I’d been through, someone who would believe me. And I wanted some r
ecord left behind in case I went missing, too.
On the interstate, I had the heater up so high that I grew stuffy in my jacket so I cracked the windows and let in freezing gusts of air. The road was empty and a shudder rippled through me when I passed the city limits sign, the sides of the highway thickening with pine trees.
I unwrapped a Twix bar, half melted from the heat in the car, and ate it in three bites before crunching my way through a bag of Cheetos. I was licking the orange dust off my fingertips when I saw the exit for Starrville/Omen Road, and before I knew it I was driving down the exact same road, lifted from my dreams, driving toward Lucy.
The steering wheel became slick in my hands, my palms glazed with sweat, and soon I found the red dirt road leading to the cemetery. I slowed the car but drove a half mile past it and parked in a ditch. I wanted it to look like my car had broken down, not like I was out there snooping.
I climbed out and hiked along Omen Road, the tree tops shifting above me, their wispy branches shaking in the wind, the cold stinging my lungs. I prayed that a car wouldn’t pass, and when one did, I kept my head down, pulling my jacket up around me.
I checked my watch—I still had about thirty minutes of daylight left. By the time I reached the red dirt road, though, night was falling fast so I started walking even faster. The road climbed up a sharp hill and when I reached the top, the wind battered me from all sides.
In the distance, I could see the wrought-iron gates to the cemetery and as I approached I didn’t feel fear like I thought I might. I felt a yearning so vast to see Lucy again I thought my chest might rip in two.
I stepped into the cemetery. It was shrouded in tall pines and only fingers of light filtered across the crumbling graves. The giant circle of stones and the fire pit were there, just as Sylvia had described, and I zipped up my jacket and shivered. On the back edge of the cemetery I found a huge chunk of iron ore and positioned myself behind it, so that I could peer around the edge of it, unnoticed. The clouds had scattered and the night was clear. It was so dark out there that the stars hung from the sky like lit chandeliers.