The Kids Aren't Alright
Chapter 2: I'll Wait
The following morning, cloaked in the shadows of pre-dawn, I silently circle Carla's house, ignoring the garish yellow police tape and being careful not to leave prints. Despite the beers I downed last night at the Riverwater Saloon – a dive bar I discovered not too far from my motel – my senses are keen and alert. I decide on my entry point as soon as I spot it: an open side window which I remember leads to Carla's laundry room. Scanning my surroundings once more, I steal across the side garden and hoist myself onto the windowsill, slipping inside the house.
I quietly drop to the tiled floor and crouch low, listening intently, but I already know I'm alone in the house. The place is awash with silence, as if it knows it was robbed of the two lives that should be there. I wonder, as I always do when investigating a murder, whether I'll be joined by the victim's vengeful spirit. It's happened once or twice before. Sometimes it actually helps.
But despite itching to avenge Carla, her daughter's disappearance is my biggest concern now. If there's no body, I've got to assume the kid's alive. Which means Louise's daughter could also be alive. Which means the clock is ticking.
The first thing I do is check the protections. Pulling out my battered old EMF reader, I begin a slow walkthrough of the house, with only the muted squeals of the reader breaking the rigid silence.
I helped Carla spook-proof this house myself, once she learned the hard way I wasn't kidding about the existence of monsters and demons. As a Christian woman, Carla already had plenty of holy paraphernalia littered around. At my insistence we also lined her doorframes and windows with rock salt and sealed them, leaving the salt lines permanently in place. We painted protection sigils under the wallpaper in Megan's room, devil's traps under carpets, and installed plenty of iron "decorations" across anything that could be used as an entrance.
A quick sweep of the Brown house reveals that all the protections are still in place, there are no traces of sulfur, and the EMF reader hasn't picked up anything odd. No way any asshole ghost, demon or fairy could've gotten into this place. Unfortunately, the list of things that could have is still pretty long.
Upstairs, I find myself in Megan's bedroom. The bed is unmade, shoes and clothes are strewn all over the place, but there's no sign of a struggle. It's a typical twelve-year-old girl's room, the awkward cusp of childhood and adolescence illustrated by the stuffed toys lying right beside an open make-up kit on the dresser.
Sighing, I pull out my phone and start photographing the room while my mind ticks over the theories. What kind of creature could get past the house's protections, kill Carla, then take her daughter without leaving a trace?
Demons, fairies and spirits are out. Killing a woman doesn't fit an Amazon's MO, and a shtriga would've left Megan's body right where it drained her. Changelings, maybe? None like I'd ever seen before but if it means Megan is being kept alive somewhere I can't rule it out. Wendigo, vampires? No – Carla was killed, but it was clean. Nothing that feeds on flesh or blood did this.
The unwanted image of Carla on the living room floor comes to mind, and I try not to imagine the sick sound of her neck snapping. So when a car door slams outside I jump out of my skin. Footsteps are approaching the house, crunching through dry grass, and I can hear a muffled conversation growing louder.
I bolt to Megan's window and ease the curtain open ever so slightly, revealing the town sheriff and two suited men trudging across Carla's lawn below. The sheriff is lifting the crime scene tape with one hand and gesturing with the other. The men in suits are young, early thirties at most, and seem to be listening to the sheriff with a practiced cynicism.
Feds. Shit.
Darting away from the window, I mentally go over escape routes and hiding places. It's past daybreak now, meaning I can't risk using the second-floor windows or the roof. As soon as I hear the click of the front door, I decide there's no time to get to a ground level exit either.
"And this is where she was found…" the sheriff's drawl floats up the stairs. Panicking, I reluctantly choose my hiding place. I dive under Megan's bed, silently pushing aside rumpled t-shirts and curling up as tight as possible. As soon as every part of my body is tucked underneath the tiny bed, I pull the blankets down, and arrange shirts and shoes around me in a sort of barricade. Hopefully they'll mistake me as part of the mess.
If I'm caught here, I'm going to be embarrassed as hell.
"Little Jackie Wheeler – a friend of Megan's – she found the body." I strain my ears as the sheriff continues – the house has been so quiet until now that his voice carries like gunshots. "The girl said the damndest thing, that she found Mrs. Brown hangin' up in the air. Babbled on and on about it. Gotta be some sort of kid's psychological reaction to the incident, right?"
My world goes perfectly still, and a dull ringing starts in my ears.
"Most likely," a second voice answers, cool and professional, but fading away. They're moving around the house. "Is there anything else that might explain why she said that?"
The sheriff clears his throat, and I can sense him getting defensive. Small town cops don't like outsiders poking around their cases, and they really don't like outsiders treating victims and tragedies as numbers. Everything is personal.
"Jackie stumbled across her first corpse, Agent Young. She's a twelve-year-old girl. I would say that explains her reaction, yeah. "
"You didn't find anything out of the ordinary yourself?" the other agent asks. His voice is gruff and clipped – and getting closer. I hear footsteps approaching the stairs.
"Nothing other than what says in my report. Mrs. Brown's neck was busted, she probably fell down the stairs. Or was pushed. But you go ahead and have a look around." I hear a note of sarcasm in that last part. The agents are probably already combing the house, with or without the sheriff's consent.
Two sets of footsteps climb the stairs towards Megan's room, and I take a slow, deep breath, willing my body to lie perfectly still. From my vantage point under the bed, between a white fluffy rabbit and a red striped sweater, I spy two sets of dress shoes entering the bedroom.
The first pauses at the entrance, taking the scene in. The second walks towards the bed – I hold my breath and resolve to knock these guys out and bail if I'm discovered. Sadly, taking out feds isn't the worst thing I've ever done. Instead, the owner of the second set of shoes strides around the bed and heads to the window.
"Dean, what is it?" the one at the door asks.
"Iron." It's all he says, but even in an undertone the word is laden with significance. The other guy joins Dean at the window and for a moment I'm impressed – the iron protections at Megan's window aren't all that noticeable.
"Salt, too," the other one adds quietly. "It's been set in place at every doorway and window. You think she knew something was coming for her? Or her daughter?"
"Maybe," the other answers, pausing at Megan's dresser. "Or maybe it was a precaution. Iron, salt, crosses – this is basic, cover-your-bases type stuff."
"Well, looks like it wasn't enough."
Feds who are familiar with the paranormal applications of iron and salt? This is new. Maybe Carla's murder caught the attention of a special taskforce or something. Maybe the States actually have taskforces designed to help hunters and I've just never heard of them. We don't have anything like that back in Australia.
After what seems like hours and far too many steps towards the bed, the two feds finally exit the room. I quietly let out the breath I've been holding as I hear them checking other rooms in the house. My mind ticks over whether these agents could be useful, but I quickly shoot that idea down – I don't trust law enforcement to handle hunting cases, not even the ones that know what salt lines are for. Megan is out there somewhere, and Louise's daughter too, and for their sake I can't risk trusting feds right now.
Unfortunately, most of this job entails lying in wait, and I ignore the cramps forming in my arms and legs as the agents join the sheriff downstairs and ask more questions. I'll have to be certain they're out of the house before I can move. But as soon as I'm moving? I'm finding Megan. And if she isn't alive, whoever did this is going to pay.
That much I know.
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