Today is the one-year anniversary of Mist, my story about a woman who was kidnapped -- then escaped. Now it's time for her revenge ... but first she has to put her past behind her, if she can.
We approached a small huddle of
people, many wearing hard hats and others apparently civilians, like Ned and
me. I didn't recognize anyone, but that didn't surprise me. Ron and I had lived
on the street for just two years and we were both busy and didn't socialize
much. I left after the abduction and never came back and if what Bob Bertowski
said was true, the neighborhood had fallen on hard times since then. The
residents who lived here when I lived here were probably long gone.
I looked past the group of people
and saw my house still standing, next in line for the wrecking ball,
constructions workers scurrying around it and the other houses nearby. The
house had aged badly. The dark blue paint was peeling and the upper sleeping
porch sagged as though it would tumble down of its own accord any minute. The
appearance surprised me. I still remembered it as I left it. At that time, it
had been repainted to its former Edwardian glory with contrasting paint on the
trim and porches. The sleeping porch was slated for replacement during the
spring when we tackled the upstairs remodeling.
But spring came and went with no one
there to oversee any repairs. I was deep into therapy and when I wasn't talking
to a shrink, I was at the hospital with Ron. This was the first time I was back
since that day when I was drugged and forcibly removed. I had never returned,
not even to get clothing or personal effects. I found a furnished apartment
near Ron's hospital and later his nursing home so I could spend time with him.
After the police were done with the house, friends and volunteers came in and
had the furniture and household goods moved to a storage locker. The only item
of furniture I really cared about was my desk, a battered old drop-front that
Ron bought me at an antique sale when we first met. The desk and whatever other
things they brought out were still in the locker, ten blocks away. I wasn't
sure I'd ever look at any of it again.
I followed Ned to a tall man holding
a clipboard. "O'Malley," I said, looking at the list of names on the
paper clipped to the board.
He put a check next to the name and
gestured to a row of paper bags near the curb. "Blue bag," he said
then turned to another person approaching him.
Ned picked up the brown bag with the
blue square of construction paper stapled to the front. He opened it and peered
inside then closed it quickly. "What is it?" I asked.
"Just stuff," he said. "Probably
from the house."
One of the construction workers
overheard. "We went through the house and picked up the stray things we
found. Weren't sure if it was important or not."
"What could be left?" I
took the bag from Ned and looked inside. Memories flooded me. A small, grinning
stuffed pumpkin that used to sit on top of the television. The broken remnant
of a cat statue my mother gave me on my tenth birthday. The remote control to
the DVD player. A tattered scarf, the 'tug toy' Ron used to tease Molly into a
tug-of-war. And there was Molly's cloth Raggedy Ann doll, the worn and grubby
thing that Molly carried with her wherever she went. I pulled it out and
touched the crusty, bloody stain on Ann's leg. Molly used to sleep with Raggedy
Ann, wrapping her doggy legs around the doll and resting her pug head on Ann's
head so it looked like they were both dreaming together.
Ned took the doll from me and
stuffed it back in the bag. "We'll look at it later," he said,
jamming the bag under his arm. He nodded to the worker. "Thanks."
I nodded, too, unable to speak. Who
would have thought, after all this time, that the memories could hurt so much?
Ned tucked my arm under his and I leaned gratefully against him, his solid
warmth and calm presence like a balm. Ned always provided a bulwark of comfort,
silently there like a wall that I could lean on when I needed it. He didn't say
anything, just walked with me a few steps away from the others where I stopped
to stare at the house.
A few months ago a restoration group
had contacted me, asking to purchase anything of authentic value in the home. I
gave them my permission to gut the place once I knew the building would be
razed. So now the windows were gone, the trim around the front porch had
vanished, the decorative finials and fencing was torn away. I'm sure the inside
looked as bereft as the exterior. The house stood like a poor sister stripped
of her finery. I sighed as I remembered the work that went into the house. We
hadn't even begun the upstairs restoration. It took us most of a year to do the
downstairs, getting all of the historically accurate parts needed for a true
rehabilitation of the old house. Ron was fussy about that, only buying
reproduction work when he couldn't find authentic doorknobs, millwork, or
flooring.
It wasn't just the house he
restored. He made sure to purchase period furniture and furnishings, haunting
antique shops and auctions around the country in order to find what he wanted.
His wealth made such trips possible, of course. For Ron, money truly was no
barrier to getting what he wanted. Those antiques were still in the storage
locker, part of the estate contention I was fighting over with Ron's sister,
Clarissa.
It was Ron's money and his
connection to one of the wealthiest and famous families in Pittsburgh that
first made the police assume I was simply kidnapped for ransom. It wasn't until
days later, when no ransom note appeared, that they started to realize I was
truly gone. And it wasn't until I escaped and another woman was kidnapped that
they realized I had been a prisoner of a serial, sadistic rapist.
"Stand back, folks,"
someone said.
I started, surprised to find myself
back in this place and time. Ned stepped to one side and I followed his lead as
the crane moved forward, swinging a gigantic wrecking ball ponderously toward
the house. There was one hesitant moment as I wondered if the house would
withstand the pummeling then the front wall collapsed, dust and rubble shooting
upward with a cracking noise, as though thousands of twigs were being trod on
by a giant, careless child.
I jumped as the wrecking ball swung
again, this time connecting with the south wall. That was the entryway into the
mudroom from the garage, behind the house and in the alley. The walkway from
the garage was a flagstone path edged with daffodils in the spring and daisies
in the summer. I had plans for the back yard. I was going to put in a Victorian
herb garden and an arbor. Ron and I took a trip to England, a combination of
research and pleasure. The highlight of the trip was a visit to Sissinghurst,
where I fell in love with the beautiful garden 'rooms.' I came home from that
trip with plans to do something similar in our little plot of Pittsburgh soil.
"I thought you'd be here."
I turned when at the sound of a low,
gruff voice behind me. Detective Eric Albert had aged in the three years since
I saw him last, right before I left town for good. His dark brown skin seemed
to hang in folds on his face, giving him the look of a bloodhound. He still
shaved his head and his neck still disappeared into the lines of his shoulders,
adding to his squat, linebacker image but he was heavier now than before, with
some of the muscle going to fat. When I knew him, he was in his early sixties.
A year after I left, I got a card from him, saying he had taken retirement. The
Bridal Murders probably hastened his decision.
"Hi, Eric." I extended my
right hand and after a brief hesitation, he took it and gave it a brisk shake.
His gaze went to Ned. "This is Ned Buchanan," I said. "He's a
friend."
Eric frowned, his bloodshot brown
eyes assessing Nate in one long, sweeping glance. "Name sounds familiar."
"He was a friend of Ron's,"
I said in explanation. I looked beyond Eric to the ruins of my home, my
shoulders hunched against memory and cold. "Ned and Ron were in the
Marines together. Ned used to live in Pittsburgh, too."
"I investigated Carolyn's case."
Eric glanced at me then his speculative gaze went back to Ned. "Maybe I
talked to you back then."
Ned shook Eric's hand briskly. "I
had lost touch with Ron. You probably didn't get around to me." He turned
to watch the wrecking ball demolish my house, obviously closing the subject.
Talking about Ron always shook Ned.
"When I found out you sold the
house, I wondered if you'd come back. Then when I read it was being torn down,
well, that's when I was sure I'd find you here." Eric's voice reflected
sympathy and understanding. "You held out for a long time."
"They made me an offer I couldn't
refuse." I tried to smile but it just wouldn't come. I had been playing a
game for a long time and today I didn't want to play anymore. I just wanted to
watch the last of my past life die before me, without witnesses to evaluate me
or assess me.
"You worked the case? Have they
found anything new?" Ned asked, releasing my arm and turning his back to
the ruins of my home, his head tilted toward Eric, the angle of his body
inviting Eric to turn and talk to him.
I silently blessed him for diverting
Eric's attention. I let their conversation fade into the background as the last
corner came crashing down at the back of the house. That had been my office, a
cozy room with flowered wallpaper that faced west, shady in the summer from the
maples and warm in the winter when the leaves were off the trees that lined our
back yard. Molly used to love to curl up on the rug under my desk and doze, her
snores like little pig snorts as she breathed through her pug nose.
Something pressed into my hand. I
looked down and a tear fell off my chin. I raised the handkerchief Ned had
given me and dabbed at my eyes. "Sorry," I mumbled.
"You go ahead and cry all you
want," Eric said. His turned his face to the house as though offering me
privacy. I glimpsed the telltale glistening of tears in his eyes, too. "All
you want."
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