I asked, “Are you talking about the old Cadence house?”
“This time of year, we get two or three calls a night. High school kids like to go there and scare each other. Did you actually see something?”
I was on a weedy footpath that led through the trees. “I told you, a woman was screaming. I’m not making this up.”
“Are you in the house?”
“No, but-”
“Do you see anyone inside?”
“I’m not close enough. Look, the woman I heard wasn’t having fun.”
“Then how do you know she’s inside? Unless this is an emergency, ma’am, Saturday nights we’re spread pretty thin. Where are you exactly?”
I was exiting the path from the southwest, the house’s tin roof and cupola silver in sunset’s last light. There were no cars outside the gate except for my SUV. No one on the balcony either. The front door was still chained, no sign of light or movement inside. I said, “I wasn’t imagining things. Someone is inside that house and she’s in trouble.”
“Do you still hear her?”
“Well… no.”
“Let’s give it a few seconds. I’m not doubting your word, ma’am. You said your name is Hannah Smith?”
I continued toward my car and opened the door, phone to my ear. While I waited, I hid the memory card in the glove box. Soon she asked, “Still nothing? Then it was probably kids in a passing car. That’s usually what it turns out to be. Are you in any personal danger, Miz Smith?”
I said, “Could you please send a deputy just to check it out? I’ll stick around. And you have my number.”
“As soon as one’s available, I’ll get a car there,” the dispatcher assured me.
Of course the moment I hung up, I heard another scream from somewhere beyond the balcony. I looked at the phone, then shoved it in my pocket and ran toward the house. The screaming did not stop until I had managed to open the padlock.
It seemed to take forever, the way my hands refused to cooperate.
IN THE PARLOR, with its chandelier, the fire was out, but the room was still smoky when I entered. Not thick, but enough to swirl aside when I crossed to the stairs and called, “Who’s up there?”
No response.
I shifted the bag on my shoulder and tried again. “If you’re in trouble, I’ll help. Say something.”
This time I heard a click and muffled thump as if someone had closed a door.
I fanned the air to get a clean breath, unsure what to do. A woman didn’t make the sounds I had heard unless she was at her wits’ end. I couldn’t go off and leave her. But I also didn’t want to climb those stairs.
It wasn’t dark, but windows were dimming, so I opened the bag and chose my little flashlight, not the pistol. Smoke tunneled the beam when I switched it on. In a way, what I saw was comforting. Someone had been very busy here during the last hour. The broken banister had been moved and the stairs were draped with toilet paper. White streamers hung from the landing and chandelier. Oh… and a crushed Budweiser can was balanced between the horns of a hat rack. Several scorpions smashed flat on the floor, too.
Theo and Lucia hadn’t done this. The dispatcher had been right about teenagers. They had broken in and had fun decorating as if for a prom. I hadn’t heard their vehicles coming or going, had seen just the dusty signature of a car that hadn’t stopped… or had stopped just long enough to gather a few artistic vandals.
At least one young woman, though, had been left behind.
I tilted my head toward the upstairs. “I know you’re up there. I already called the police, so you might as well come down and explain.”
Mentioning police did it. A door banged open amid wild laughter. Footsteps galloped overhead while a girl’s voice warned, “Krissie, we’re gonna leave your ass.” Then another bang and tinkling glass at the back of the house.
High school girls. No need to fear them nor them to fear me. I didn’t want them to break their necks escaping, so I hurried through the sitting room to the kitchen and looked out. The secret access to the upstairs was an aluminum ladder that hadn’t been there yesterday. I got a glimpse as the trespassers scuttled down: two skinny teens, one in coveralls, the other dressed bizarrely in an evening gown that had been shortened with scissors. Beneath it, black leggings with zebra stripes and cowboy boots.
Neither wore a red blouse, unlike the woman I had photographed earlier. But that was okay. I smiled at the girl’s costume until she turned and yelled, “Krissie-you asked for it, you bitch.”
From above, a pitiful wail responded, a wail that soon turned shrill and familiar. Whatever friendliness I might have felt toward the two girls vanished when they abandoned their friend by jogging toward the river.
At least I had a name to work with when I found the girl they had left behind.
I circled back and inhaled a gulp of air at the door, which was open. Then went up the stairs, calling, “Kris… Krissie? There’s no need to be afraid.” Several times I repeated soothing variations while I panned the flashlight across the landing. Soon, I heard a cooing, whimpering noise that seemed to come from the music room, where one French door hung loose on its hinges.
“Don’t be afraid,” I said, then followed the flashlight inside, where the piano had also been adorned with white streamers and beer cans. Something else I recognized: seeds from a mimosa pod littered the floor. They were flat and shiny, as brown as miniature cow chips. Some had been powdered and heated in a pan. The pan showed scorch marks from a flame.
Smoking drugs, I thought. The same smoke from the fireplace… That’s why I feel so odd.
The mix of giddiness and despondence I’d experienced earlier was curling its way into my brain. Not strong, but noticeable. Thankfully, my awareness produced a counter-emotion: anger. How reckless, I thought, and how cruel, to poison unsuspecting people by filling this house with their smoke. It made me more determined to help the girl.
I did a slow search of the music room. On the far wall was a poster that had been left behind. The lettering was big and easy to read despite its toilet paper adornments:
MEET CHUMAN
Love Child of Woman & Ape
(As seen on National Geographic)
It was an oversized photo-not a drawing-of a man who was as hairy as a werewolf. He had a flat simian face and wore a restraining collar as if he were a Rottweiler. Snarling, too, canines bared, and a metallic glint in his eyes-compliments of Photoshop and a promoter’s imagination.
The poster struck me as repugnant. Then I remembered that Tyrone, a real person who lived alone in a trailer, had probably posed for the photo. That made me feel even worse. Because of an affliction, the man had no other way to make a living, yet tonight teenagers had mocked him, had added obscene graffiti, then toilet paper streamers-more Halloween decorations to set the mood. A lewd drawing, too: a snake with fangs and a smile protruded from Tyrone’s mouth like an extended tongue.
I wondered if the girl they’d left behind had also found the image disturbing. She wasn’t in the music room-I even looked under the piano. Her crying had stopped and started again. Now it seemed to float down the hall from the other side of the house.
Strange. Usually my ears are as sharp as my eyesight and it’s exceptional, if Loretta’s doctor is to be believed. Was I hallucinating? No… my mind was struggling with the smoke but okay. Her crying was real. Somewhere in this house a frightened girl was hiding or… or she was being held against her will.
That gave me a jolt. The possibility was real, not paranoia. And the most likely suspect was Theo.