Burner, page 15
“Christ.” Blevins held his hand against the lower half of his face, his gaze on the woman. He held it for a moment, and then pulled it away. “And you just left? You and your daughter just…flew off to Italy?”
Audrey looked down at her lap. “Every single day, I think back to that moment, Detective. Every single day. I think about her eyes, pleading with me, begging me to save her. I hear her voice, full of pain. How absolutely… tortured she sounded. I cannot begin to imagine the hell that girl was put through. Everywhere I could see, her body had been fucking burned and—”
Her voice broke. Her eyes glassed over and she sniffled and daubed the tissue beneath her nose. “I would trade everything to go back and do the right thing.”
“Why the hell didn’t you?” Blevins shook his head and he turned away to stare past her. Both of them were silent for a few moments. His eyes were tired. He tapped the desk with his fingertips.
Audrey tilted her head slightly and stared at the detective. She looked worn and weathered. The light in the room made the shadows beneath her eyes even darker.
After a moment, the man nodded. “Yeah, sure…your daughter.”
“The cab came to get us. Sarah and I flew away.”
“For ten days?”
She nodded.
“And when you got back?”
Audrey blinked slowly at him and turned to her hands again. “After we got back, that was when the start of my hell began.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
AUDREY: then
She wasn’t real.
By the fifth day of the trip, the thought had settled in Audrey’s mind. It came to her on the streets, at the hotel, and on tours, the three words repeating like a tribal drum.
She wasn’t real.
On the first full day, she and Sarah had visited Vatican City and the Sistine Chapel. They had stared so long at the ceiling, Audrey’s neck had begun to hurt. The mural was beautiful beyond words, but soon after leaving, Audrey couldn’t even conjure the image of God and Adam reaching out to touch each other’s fingertips. It was as if she was seeing and hearing everything through a haze of static.
When bedtime of the first day arrived, and they readied for sleep, Audrey’s thoughts turned to the girl again. Her voice, pleading and frantic. Desperate.
Once, Audrey reached for her phone, but then wondered who she was going to call. The police? Then what? Everything would come out. The Hawkins Group, Paul’s involvement—whatever that was—and however deep it may be.
The girl is still in your fucking barn, Audrey. You can’t just throw her in the fire pit and pretend she never existed.
A heavy, breaking sob almost escaped before Audrey capped her hand over her mouth. If everything came out, if she went to the police, how would she and Sarah be protected? These weren’t small-time criminals, these were wealthy men—lots of money was involved, and they wouldn’t take this lightly. She swallowed hard and listened to Sarah breathing peacefully in her sleep.
Audrey stared at the ceiling.
Even if they could be protected, if everything came out, it would follow Sarah forever. Her entire life would be stained. It was doubtful Sarah would even talk with her again, knowing her mother knew about the girl in the barn and did nothing. If everything came out, about Paul, about this, it would kill Sarah, shatter and break her like carnival glass.
Audrey drank wine each night to help her sleep, but when rest finally came, it was fitful and uneasy. She dreamt of waves crashing against Italian beaches, but in her dreams, it was the sound of chains being dragged across weathered cement.
It had taken a little convincing, but on the seventh day Sarah talked her into renting Vespa scooters and driving to the Colosseum. Sarah had taken the lead on the drive, and Audrey was thankful for it. They arrived and parked, and Audrey realized she had no memory of the route they took to get there. It was as if she had been dreaming the entire time, observing as a spectator in someone else’s life, and then awoken as Sarah had come to a stop at a cobblestone street.
They toured the Colosseum and Sarah marveled at the structure. Audrey heard the early part of the tour guide’s words, explaining how the structure was completed in 80 AD and held anywhere from fifty to eighty thousand spectators at a time.
She wasn’t real.
The mantra in Audrey’s head drowned out the rest of the guide’s words for the entire tour, and when it was over, they drove the scooters back to the hotel. Audrey imagined this is how a concussion had to feel—dreamy and confusing and faraway.
On the eighth day, they had eaten breakfast and drank espressos at an outdoor café. Sarah said it was the stereotypical Italian movie scene, and they just had to do it. Afterward, they took a tour bus to Pompeii, photographing and admiring the sites.
Audrey felt out of body as the bus drove on, as if she was a kite adrift in a high wind.
It had been 2,000 years since the volcano left Pompeii in ruins, and Audrey watched Sarah trail her fingertips along the ancient walls, her expression enthralled, fascinated. A thriving community at one time, and so many people, dead and buried beneath fire and ash in moments. The tour guide led the group through the narrow streets, and spoke of the rich culture and developed city that once thrived.
The tour ended in a covered pavilion, showcasing a series of cast plaster figures in their last moments before death. The guide said they had been created by pouring plaster into the small cavities of the ash-encapsulated remains of the humans who had perished. It was a time capsule of death. Some of the figures appeared to be crawling away. Others were lying down in the gray pebbles and ash.
Audrey crossed her arms and paused in front of a pale figure. Its hands covered the lower half of its face and its knees were drawn up like a frightened child during a thunderstorm. She stared at the figure, the rough plaster surface, the terrified position, the hopelessness. Her heart hammered in her chest. Her vision blurred, and her lungs struggled for breath. She stumbled to get away from the crowd and get some air, backing away and staggering to a bench. Audrey put her palms on her knees to steady herself, and closed her eyes as she breathed.
“Mom?”
Sarah’s voice was in front of her. Audrey lifted her head, opened her eyes, and forced a thin smile. “I’m okay. Was too warm with all those people…” She waved a hand at her face and exhaled slowly. “I needed some air.”
Sarah sat down beside her and gently rubbed her back. “You sure?”
Nodding, Audrey gave her another smile and faced forward, willing her breath to slow. Her heart was calming. She nodded toward a wooden pavilion where tourists had already begun to gather. “Almost time for the cheese and wine tasting.”
“We don’t have to, Mom.” Sarah’s hand rubbed soft circles. “If you don’t feel—”
“No, no. I’ll be okay.” She inhaled through her nose deeply, and then let it out slowly through her mouth. “I’m fine, Honey.”
Sarah’s expression was filled with worry. “You sure?”
“Absolutely.” Audrey stood from the bench and felt stable again. She put her hands out to Sarah and forced a smile full of mischief. “Come on. It’s legal for you to drink here, and you and I are going to get giggly in public.”
Sarah grinned and took her mother’s hands. As the two of them walked, hand in hand toward the wine tasting pavilion, the thought pulsed in Audrey’s mind.
She wasn’t real.
Audrey almost believed it.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
AUDREY: then
“Do you remember when Dad got me that doll for Christmas I wanted sooooo badly? I think it was called Talking Tiffany or something.”
“Oh, I remember. Three years old and he was wrapped around your little finger.”
It had been an unplanned day and, as they sometimes turn out, resulted in some of the best moments. After some quick shopping in a food market, they had gone to see the golden sand of Serapo Beach stretching out to meet the turquoise waters. It was postcard beautiful, even more so in contrast to Pompeii and the location of so much death the previous day. Audrey smiled at Sarah, pulled the cork on a bottle of red wine, and put it and the corkscrew beside the small basket of meat, cheese, and fruit she had brought.
Sarah’s expression broke into a smile, and she went on. “Did you know Dad went to like… five different department stores trying to buy it for me? He told me about it years later when we went for my driving test.”
“That damn doll was sold out everywhere.” Audrey pulled two wine glasses from the basket and offered one to Sarah. She poured some into her daughter’s glass, and then filled her own. “Your dad came home after shopping that night and had a glass of Scotch out in the back yard by himself. I think he was close to murdering people at the mall.”
Sarah sipped from her glass. “And then,” she sputtered laughter. “Then the doll freaked me out so bad when I heard it laugh, I threw it—”
“In the damned hallway!” Audrey joined her daughter, laughing at the memory. “Your father and I walked out of the bedroom that morning and saw it laying there! He glanced at it and kept on walking.”
“It sounded demonic!” Sarah shook her head, laughing, and then looked out over the sparkling water. Her voice softened, the amusement and humor dimming. “Dad never said a word to me about throwing it in the hall and never playing with it again.”
The rays of the setting sun caught strands of Sarah’s hair, turning them golden. Her eyes were afire with light, and as Audrey looked at her daughter, she thought she had never seen her more beautiful. She felt emotion swell inside her and Audrey turned away, knowing if she continued to look at her, she wouldn’t be able to speak.
“He loved you very much.” Audrey glanced back at her then, the words her daughter needed to hear out in the open.
Sarah opened her mouth to speak, and then shook her head. Her eyes brimmed with tears along their lower lids, and she drank from her glass instead.
Scooting closer, Audrey gently leaned against her shoulder. “We’re going to be okay, Honey.”
“Are we, Mom? I mean…it’s weird and serious to talk about, but you can, you know?” Sarah raised her free hand up to wipe her eyes, but fresh tears spilled over her cheeks. “Mom, if we need to sell the house or I need to drop out of—”
“Hey?” Audrey put her wine glass down on top of the picnic basket, and turned to Sarah. “Heyyyy. Come here.” She spread her arms and hugged Sarah, bringing up a hand to smooth the girl’s hair along the back of her head. Audrey whispered to her. “Honey, nothing like that is going to happen. There’s nothing for you to worry about. Your father had things in place to take care of everything. To take care of us.”
Audrey felt Sarah’s breath hitch in her chest, and knew her daughter was fighting the urge to completely break down into sobs. She eased away from Sarah and held the sides of her daughter’s face in her hands.
“We’re going to be okay.” She wiped her daughter’s tears from her cheeks and stared into her eyes. “Really.”
The moment passed, and they sat on the beach enjoying the wine and each other’s company. Warmth of the sun and the breeze coming off the water made it magical, and for the first time since arriving, Audrey felt present and in the moment. Audrey listened as Sarah talked about old memories and things her father wouldn’t be present for in the future. Some memories brought laughter with them, and others ushered a fresh bout of tears.
There was a bittersweet feeling about it being the last night before they had to fly back. Yes, it had been a wonderful, amazing experience, but Audrey knew the truth—the trip had been an escape, a denial of the reality back home.
Cathartic, Audrey thought. An unburdening of grief.
But how do I unburden what I hold? Is that even possible?
Audrey put an arm around her daughter, and they stayed there sitting close to each other until there were no more words to say. The bottle of wine was empty and the sun had descended past the horizon.
The world back home waited patiently.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
IRIS: now
“Did you know the woman you saw in the barn?”
“No.” Iris shook her head as she exhaled cigarette smoke through her nose. “Never saw her before that moment.
The doctor ran a hand over his face and pushed his iPad aside. He leaned forward on the desk and then pushed his chair away from the table and stood up.
“She saw you, chained up like that, and she just…” He put his hands in his pockets and looked at the ceiling. “She left you there?”
“Absofuckinlutely.” Iris flicked her tongue out over her lips to moisten them.
“I…Iris, I don’t…” Doctor Walker shook his head, glanced at the two-way mirror, and then back to her.
“Think you could ask your naughty little puppy on the other side of that mirror if I could have some water?” Iris smiled sweetly and the doctor turned to look at the mirror and gave a nod.
“Iris, I’m…” He cleared his throat and took a heavy breath. “None of this is in your file and I’m not exactly sure—”
“No rulebook on this shit, is there, Doc?”
“If what you’re telling me… this woman, the mother of—” The doctor cut himself short, cleared his throat again, and straightened his posture. “She left you there, shackled in the barn, and… what then?”
Iris stared at the burning tip of her cigarette as the smoke drifted upward. Doctor Walker stepped to the table and sat back down. He flipped the folder closed, appearing to be disgusted with its contents and pushed the material to either side of him, opening a clear path on the table.
The door swung open quickly, and the detective from earlier stepped inside, set a Styrofoam cup of water on the table. He smiled and gave a wink at Iris and then left the room again.
“Humans can go without food for…” Iris shifted her head side to side. “Around three weeks, give or take a few days.”
She shifted in her chair and crossed her legs. Aside from her state-issued uniform, she could have been sitting in a job interview. “Water, though… that’s less forgiving. A good rule of thumb is, on average, we can go without water for about a hundred hours.”
Iris took the foam cup and stared at its surface, at the floating patch of small bubbles more solid than the rest. A glob of spit. She made a display of noticing it, turned to the mirror, raised her cup in a cheers motion, and drank. When Iris was done, she winked toward the detective on the other side, and set the cup on the table.
Holding the cigarette in front of her, Iris took another drag and then her gaze returned to the glowing ember as it dulled to ash. “So, you want to know what then, Doctor? I’ll tell you, what then.”
CHAPTER FIFTY
IRIS: then
Youbitchcuntmotherfuckerhowcouldyouleavemelikethis!
Iris fought against the chains holding her in place. She tried to scream but only produced the hoarse, gruff sound of an animal in distress.
Tears she thought she could no longer cry sprung to her eyes, and she let her arms fall in front of her, the chain jangling against the concrete.
Four days. It’s been four fucking days since I’ve seen the Man.
And today, the woman shows up.
Something is wrong.
The woman wasn’t coming back. Iris saw it in her expression. The fear. The shock. The refusal to believe.
Iris knelt on the cement, arms in front of her, and stared forward. For a while, she dared to believe the woman had run away to call the cops, the FBI, anyone to come help her.
She waited.
From outside, Iris heard the faint sound of a car engine, and the slightest flicker began to swell in her chest, igniting Iris’s heart and a lamplight of hope. She found the strength to rise from her knees and stand. Tears blossomed at her eyes and she ignored them, allowing them passage to fall down her face.
The noise of the car engine grew louder, and then softened again—from a distance—as the vehicle drove away.
She isn’t coming back. No one is.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
IRIS: then
After a while, Iris crawled on her hands and knees toward the bag of Ol’ Roy and pulled it closer. She shoved one hand inside the package, the tube of PVC at her wrists catching the paper and crumpling it as she reached down to the bottom. Iris tilted the bag and the remaining kibble slid to the corner of the waxed paper liner. She gathered up a single handful—almost all that was left—and brought it to her mouth.
The Man is not coming back.
The pellets of food were dry as dust and tasted of cornmeal—unseasoned and bland, like plain scones left to grow stale and hard. Her mouth was void of moisture, and as Iris chewed, the dog food thickened to a wad of paste. She made her way to the row of water bottles on the wall and tilted her head beneath the one at the end of the line, lapping at the ball bearing stopper at the bottom of the metal tube. Drops of water flowed into her mouth, and Iris swirled it around to dissolve the mouthful of Ol’ Roy.
The Man is not coming back.
She reached for the top of the plastic bottle, able to grip it with only one hand because of the PVC pipe, and wiggled the bottle back and forth in the hose clamp attaching it to the wood. Iris pulled upward and the water bottle rose with her motion, sliding free from the clamp. She flipped it upside down, held the bottle between her bloodied knees, and twisted the lid until it came free. Letting the cap fall to the cement, Iris lifted the plastic container to her mouth, tilting it to take a drink of water.
Tears sprung to her left eye, and they burned as they spilled down her cheek, gritty and wounded, like dried saltwater chafing sunburned skin. Her right eye was crusted shut, barren of tears.
Iris took another swallow and held the container up in front of her. There was barely two fingers worth of liquid remaining.
A half-days’ worth at most, even if I ration it out. Then what, Iris? It’s been days since I’ve seen the Man and the woman saw me and fucking left!
