2

In the basement of a small house out in the woods, an older-looking man with wrinkled hands but bright blue twinkling eyes that gave him a younger age pulled a string attached to the bare light bulb. The bulb didn't shed much light into the tiny room, which was shaped like a prison cell, something the man had been used to for much of his younger years. He looked around, and seeing the papers scattered on the table near the pipes, he crossed the room with his cane and sat down at the table. The water pipe next to him dripped every few seconds onto the cement floor of the room, but the man wasn't bothered by it. He rather welcomed the sound because it had put his concentration on that instead of the screaming of the little girl.

Of course, he thought as a sly grin crossed his face, nobody was within miles of the shack anyway. That had been the main reason for choosing this place over some of the others he had singled out. Slowly the old man picked through the papers until he found a number scribbled in crayon on the back of a scrap of loose-leaf.

He angrily crunched the paper in his hand as he thought of the crayons that had been on the table when the number was written. The child who had written the number for daddy was long since gone; but it had never been his fault. It was Johnny or Harry or whatever his name was these days that lay at fault, but vengeance wasn't far off. Revenge, the man had learned, took a good lot of planning or things would all spoil. And this was far too important to be spoiled again.

Another memory hit him in the head like a mallet and he forced himself to sit down. He made a scramble for the bottle of pills on the far end of the cheap and plastic table to keep him in check. Couldn't have himself doing anything to screw it up. Last chances were always final and this last chance was something he wouldn't allow to get away.

Finally the old man calmed himself. He pulled the phone off the hook next to where he stood leaning on his cane and reached again for the crumpled slip of paper. Not allowing any more memories to hit, the man quickly glanced at the number, then threw it down as he dialed. It rang, once, twice, three times before the man himself answered the phone sounding like he had just risen.

"Hello?"

The man kept his breath as light as possible, but even that was heavy in his older age. He wasn't a twenty-something anymore. Now he was more a fifty or sixty-something, though he would tell no one his exact age and nobody really could tell. Finally came, "Johnny or is it 'Arry? 'Lo again, lad."

Harry sucked in a deep breath. "Sean," he said cautiously, not knowing what trouble the phone call could bring.

"So you do remember me, eh? I suppose you 'aven't forgotten any of it now, am I right?"

Silence. He couldn't speak about any of it; it was a painful part of the unspoken past, something Harry couldn't ever speak about to even those who had been closest to him.

"So I was right then. You 'aven't forgotten. Well, lad, now I've got something that'll make you squirm."

Harry bit his tongue. "What are you planning?"

"Curious are we? Your Grace is the same age my Maryn was when it 'appened. We'll discuss details later, but know that for now the little lass is safe."

The phone went dead and Harry knew it was useless to hold on. There would be no trace on the phone, he knew that too. But who was Grace, he wondered. Maryn had been eleven when the incident occurred, but Maryn was Sean's daughter. And he knew that he didn't have any children…but after a few minutes of pondering, Harry came to a final conclusion. He'd do what he usually did when there was something that required help: he'd call Mildred.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Gracie slowly looked up at the man after she heard him hang the phone up. She didn't know where they were and she didn't know who the man was, but as her sixth sense had told her at the house, the man was not a good person. He couldn't be when he had taken her from home, from the safety of her mother and brother, and left her sketchbook lying on the porch.

The light in the room was dim and the cot she was handcuffed to was creaky and rusty, so much that it wobbled with every move she made and alerted the old man when she moved. Her eyes were burning and rimmed red, though she hadn't cried for more than a few moments. She didn't want him to think she was a baby who cried all the time.

"So the lass is awake now?"

"Who were you on the phone with?" she demanded suddenly.

"What makes you think I'll tell you?" he asked in a charming voice.

"Because," she said in a timid voice.

"Well now, don't act afraid of me. Never did like children who weren't strong."

"Are you crazy?" Gracie asked, trying to sound defiant.

"Never can tell. Wouldn't you like to know who I was talking to?" he asked suddenly.

"Please?"

"Your father. 'Ave a bone to pick with him. You'll 'ave to forgive me for using you to do it."

"You were talking to Michael?" she asked curiously. "Or were you talking to my biological dad?"

"You don't know? Well, I suppose your mother never told about your daddy 'Arry."

"Harry? Is that his name?" she asked as she felt the picture of him poking her in the side from inside her pocket.

"That's enough talk about 'im now. Might get another migraine thinking about that, and you saw 'ow terrible they are."

Gracie settled back into silence and leaned back against the wall. It was grungy, like a cell, and it was frightening to be in a dark, new strange place. She guessed from observing the room and the lighting that it must be the basement of the place. Her mom had taught her to always observe everything because it was an important tool if ever she was in trouble.

Her hands were starting to cramp with the handcuffs chained so tightly around them, but they seemed to be just loose enough to reach for her pocket. Gracie twisted her body until she was lying flat on the cot, then yanked one final time and reached into her pocket, grabbing both the picture of the Man and a bobby pin she had used to pin her hair away from her face.

The old man didn't look up at the squeaking noise of the camp cot, but Gracie didn't want to take any chances, so she cautiously raised the picture into the light where she could see his smiling face staring at her, making her the center of his world. Through the tear that dripped across her cheek making a new river track, Gracie wondered if the Man, Harry, would be her hero; the dad who would give her piggyback rides when her legs tired, tuck her in and read her a long story, and the dad who would share her thoughts and dreams without ever telling her they just wouldn't happen.

Questions floated through her mind about him, about the man who had brought her here and chained her to the rusty cot for revenge, and about her own safety. "Can I ask you a question?" she asked after sniffling and tucking the picture away.

He looked up at her, obviously startled. "Suppose so."

"Do you know if the Harry guy is really my dad?" she asked earnestly.

"As much as Maryn 'twas my own flesh and blood, I know that 'Arry is your father."

"Who is Maryn?"

A menacing look crossed his face. "Was. Past tense. 'Twas my daughter, the same age as you when she died."

That was not the right thing for him to say to reassure Gracie. "Can you tell me about Harry?" she asked, trying to change the subject.

"I don't really want to go there about 'im."

"Then what time is it?"

"Time for you to stop asking questions and go to sleep. We 'ave a long day tomorrow."

"But when do I get to talk to my mom or dad?"

"I told you, tomorrow we 'ave a long day. We'll talk then."

She pulled the covers up over her legs and turned until she found a comfortable position to sleep in. On her side facing the wall, she quietly prayed that someone would figure out what the man wanted from Harry so she could be safe again. Her eyelids began to droop as she realized just how tired she was and laid her head on the ratty pillow. The petrified feeling started to slip away and a feeling of comfort replaced it as she drifted off into slumber land, not giving anymore thought to the next day.