Chris yawned in boredom as a commercial flashed across the television in the darkened living room. As he stretched out like a cat onto the long orange sofa, he wondered vaguely where his sister was. She usually was only gone about twenty minutes on her compulsively routinely daily walk, and he estimated that she'd been out for over an hour.
She probably got caught up with nature, or something, Chris shrugged. She's never been one for hugging trees, but hey, its Rachel. She develops a new skill every day.
Chris couldn't help but be a little bit jealous of his older sister. She just seemed so perfect. She'd obviously gotten the good looks of the family, the long, wavy brown hair, the deep chocolate eyes, the perfect skin. The worst part of it was that she didn't even take care of herself, never exercising, using acne medication, styling her hair...nothing. He was a guy and took more self-maintenance than her. He attributed that to the shell that she'd encased herself in for the past two years. She used to wear contact lenses and run every day, but those days were over. She hid her pretty eyes behind her dark-rimmed glasses and lined her eyes in black eyeliner. She came home and locked herself in her room with headphones on, writing. Writing, writing, writing, reading, reading, reading. Rachel had always been a brain, but now it seemed like a blanket for her emotions. Chris never saw the cheerful, outgoing side of her that used to be such a great characteristic for her. Now she was skittish, quiet, rarely peering out from the curtain of dark hair that fell over her eyes. Chris felt a little bit cheated. She was beautiful, while he battled with the fat that seemed to just stick to his bones no matter how many sports he tried out for, the thick caustic acne that riddled his skin, braces, and frizzy straight locks of mousy brown hair. She had the good looks and didn't flaunt them, well, he was certainly envious.
But now he was worried. Although he sure didn't plan on telling her, he knew that much. Rachel hated when people worried about her, especially recently. She'd made it clear that the only person that she needed was herself, and that she wanted people to leave her alone. He knew how seclusive she could be, how she hated socializing. He sighed. He couldn't deny it. He'd been worried about her for years.
Especially since... Chris swallowed hard, shocked at the sudden emotion that caused a lump in his throat. Rach said that she didn't want to think or talk about that, so I won't either. She knows best. She always does.
As he became immersed again in Andy Milonakis, Rachel's small Scottish terrier, Atticus, came barreling up the stairs. She'd named him after her favorite character from her favorite book.
Atticus clawed at Chris's jeans, yapping loudly. "What, Atty?" Chris sighed irritably, not looking down at the old pooch.
Atticus whined and gently bit the eleven-year-old's ankles. Chris sighed and muted the tv, standing.
Why is it necessary for you to show me every single rabbit or...pheasant that you catch? You shouldn't be in the first place. Rachel hates that.
Chris followed Atticus downstairs to Rachel's room. Her television had been left on, quietly playing the news. Because she watches nothing else. I've never heard her use the word 'cliched garbage' more than when she describes typical viewing material. Chris moaned and turned it off. Happy, Atticus? But the dog kept barking. Chris looked around at her room. Nothing out of the ordinary. Pristinely organized, as usual. No dead, disemboweled small animals courtesy of Atticus Redford on the floor.
Atticus darted to the door, whining to be let out. Chris did os, but as he turned to head back upstairs, he heard the animal scratching on the door to be let back in.
"You stupid dog!" Chris blurted as he let Atticus back inside. Once again, Atticus demanded to be let out.
You idiotic little dog. You catch something outside? Fine. I'll humor you, if only you'll shut up.
Chris pulled on his soccer sweatshirt and some sneakers, and trudged through the light snow to follow Rachel's dog. Atticus stopped about half a yard from the house at a particularly pressed-down section of snow. Chris crouched down with his hands on his knees, scanning the area for a dead rodent or bird.
"What, Atty?" Chris sighed as the dog began running in psychotic circles. "What's your problem?"
Chris's eyes caught on a discolored patch of snow and he awkwardly hopped over to survey it.
Is that...? Chris's stomach formed a pit as like a weight the shocking realization hit him of what he was seeing. Blood. On the ground. Not a lot, mind, but enough to make him panic. And no feathers or fur indicating that Atticus had killed something.
The next part was what really made his nerves go haywire. A strip of Rachel's favorite coat was lying in the snow. God, no! Something got her!
Chris screamed and ran to the house, dialing 911. Rachel, please be alive.
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Several hours later, Chris was seating at the kitchen table with a cup of lukewarm hot cocoa while his parents paced the kitchen. Officers had sanctioned off the lawn and part of the woods as they analyzed the blood, coat, and various footprints.
Chris and his mother had already cried profusely together. His father tried weakly to convince them that she was alright, but as darkness fell and the temperature dropped, all three became less sure of that fact.
The officers were bundled up in thick parkas and had search notices up all over the county. Bright spotlights dotted the lawn.
Detective Maddox sat at the table with Chris, flinging questions at him left and right. Occasionally, he would toss one out to his parents, one that Chris wasn't sure were relative. Such as, "Did she have any enemies?" or "Was she at all suicidal?" The last question sent his parents through the metaphorical roof.
"Of course not!" Mrs. Redford hollered. "Rachel was incredibly religious! She would never..."
"I meant no offense," the kindly detective said gently, holding up a hand. "I'm just as clueless as to what has happened to your daughter as you are."
"Well, I'm not clueless!" Chris blurted. "You guys are so dense! Why can't you just see that some animal got her?"
Nobody looked at him for a moment and there was a tense silence. Finally Mr. Redford coughed and motioned for Chris to follow him. They went into Chris's room, as officers were still searching around in Rachel's room, and sat down on the bed.
"Chris," Mr. Redford sat in a monotone. "I wasn't going to tell you, because I was protecting your feelings and I didn't want to scare you, but you're a man now and I believe that you have the right to know. But I could be wrong."
"I want to know," Chris cried. "What the heck you're talking about!"
Mr. Redford picked at a loose thread on his son's bedspread as he spoke, his voice stricken. "Son, your sister wasn't...er...an animal didn't get her."
"Well, that's good!" Chris bounced excitedly on the bed.
"Not exactly. The police found a few other clues in the area and have been corresponding with the city of Miami department."
"Miami? Why?"
Mr. Redford held up a hand. "Hold your questions until I'm finished, please. Did you hear about that terrorist Fresh Air thing down there?"
"Yeah," Chris nodded slowly. "Yeah. Rachel was watching a report about it on the news. But I don't see what this has to do with her."
"Well, we're not sure yet," Mr. Redford responded quickly. "It could mean nothing, but they've been comparing tips from each crime scene, and noticed two things. The large footprints made and frozen in the ground were the exact same shoe brand as the ones made outside of that house in Miami."
"So? Everybody owns Nikes or Adidas." All except for Rachel, he reminded himself, marveling at modern technology.
"That's the thing. I won't go into specifics, but the imprints made from the shoes were of a very, very expensive brand. A rare, foreign one. So if Rach was...kidnapped...it was by someone with money. Which doesn't make sense because typically kidnappers are looking to kill, to hold ransom, or to..." Mr. Redford trailed off, looking sick with worry.
"What was the other clue?" Chris pressed, not willing to linger on that last note.
"I don't think I should tell you," Mr. Redford shook his head and stood. "I...I can't..."
"No!" Chris grabbed his father's arm. "Please. Just tell me. You said it yourself, I'm an adult."
"Okay," Mr. Redford sighed. "The other clue was from...a knife."
"They found a knife?" Chris gasped. Why didn't I see that?
"No," Mr. Redford admitted. "Though I almost wish they had. It would have been a big clue and we'd know if Rachel had been hurt by it. What they found was actually a deep cut in the ground. The blade was from...ah, what was it called? Something something Ka-Bar."
"12-inch," Chris choked, remembering the news. "And that corresponds to the knife used in Miami?"
"Exact same brand," Mr. Redford sighed, running a hand over his rapidly balding head. "Now, it could mean anything, but it could mean everything."
"You're saying..."
"The kidnapper could be the one from Florida."
Chris shook his head as fresh tears formed and he leaned back against the headboard. "I don't believe it. Rachel was kidnapped by Jack the Ripper."
A/N-So just a bit of a filler chapter with Chris, Rachel's brother, finding some evidence. Please review. :)