Last Seen Alive (41 page)

So Daddy was happy when Mom told him she was pregnant with me, Chyna thought. He’d usually been so reserved around her, so different in his outward affections than her friends’ fathers were, that at times she thought he’d been disappointed in her or that maybe he hadn’t wanted a second

child. But apparently, he had wanted her as much as her mother did. Chyna continued to read:

Edward was thrilled when his beautiful baby girl was born. You were a beauty, happy, quiet, and never seemed happier than when you were in your father’s arms.

I made Daddy happy, Chyna thought, tears rising in her own eyes. The thought that she had pleased him, even then, made her feel both happy and sad. At that time in his life, although more reserved than Rex or Vivian, Edward had been able to let loose and act “thrilled.” Later he became self-contained. Chyna hadn’t thought about it until this moment, but she never remembered her father even laughing out loud, not like her mother said he had when she was a baby.

Ned accepted his new sister with as much grace as a three-year-old can be expected to have. I didn’t think Ned felt neglected. Now I know different. Over the next few years, he grew into a feisty child, usually happy but prone to occasional black moods when he seemed to shut out the world around him.

Ned’s moodiness didn’t begin to show itself until you were around three. Your father and I knew even before then that you were special—not just pretty and smart, as most people believe their children to be, but gifted. At four you were already reading and better in math than Ned. When you were five, you began to play chess with your father, a game Ned never mastered.

Ned always acted pleased by his little sister’s accomplishments, but I sensed in him a feeling of inferiority. All of us—Edward, Rex, and I—-made a great fuss over Ned’s own special gifts, like his exceptional coordination and quickly blooming expertise at sports, and for long periods at a time he would seem satisfied with himself. Then you would do something remarkable, such as read a book with ease that he ’d stumbled over in spite of being three years your senior, and he would draw in upon himself again. He was never

mean to you, but some special feat you performed would usually be followed by Ned starting a fight with a neighbor’s child or getting in trouble at school. We knew he felt overshadowed by you and none of our praise could make him believe he was equal to his sister, either in his accomplishments or in our hearts.

After you both entered school, the old pattern persisted. Ned made passing grades, but only with the help of tutors. Meanwhile, you were blessed with an insatiable curiosity and an ability to soak up any subject placed in front of you. At the end of second grade, they placed you in fourth. We were informed you had nearly the IQ of a genius, a fact we never told Ned. But he knew. And even when you were only seven and eight, when children are losing teeth and not always looking their best, you looked like an angel. Ned, however, went through what we secretly called his “ragamuffin ” stage. His front teeth were slow in growing in, he had acne, and he nearly always sported a black eye from one of his many fights.

Chyna put down the third page of stationery and began reading the fourth, noticing that with each page, her mother’s usually beautiful handwriting had become more unsteady.

Edward had Ned’s clubhouse built when he was nine. He felt giving the boy a place that belonged to him alone might draw him out of his increasing depressions, his aggressiveness toward other children, his feeling of inferiority to you. For a while, it seemed to work. Ned spent hours in the building, which eventually became known as the clubhouse for the Black Willow Warriors, the gang of boys who were brave enough to be Ned’s friends. As Ned grew older, he spent less time in the clubhouse, but he always kept it locked, making certain everyone knew it was his.

Then came the teenage years. Ned’s looks had improved dramatically, as had his personality. He became popular and excelled at sports, although his poor grades often had him teetering on the edge of losing his place on various

teams. Also, there were several acts of vandalism around town at that time and Ned was suspected of being involved in some of them, but he was always cleared, sometimes because of Edward’s influence.

But in spite of Ned’s many friends, and girlfriends, he was still prone to those dark moods that worried me so much, times when he barely spoke, spent hours staring at television, and seemed removed from his family and the world around him. Once I went into his room while he was at school. I admit to snooping, and what I found shocked me. In a metal box he’d forgotten to lock, Ned had a collection of stories about serial killers and what I had no doubt were staged photos of naked girls who had been brutally murdered. Still…

I was deeply shaken but couldn ’t bring myself to tell Edward. Instead, I called Rex—a man I am ashamed to confess to you had become my lover again when Ned was about eleven. I had a bond with Rex I never had with Edward, and Ned was Rex’s son. But perhaps those are just excuses for not doing what I should have done, which was get professional help for my son, When I told Rex about Ned, he assured me I was overreacting—that many teenage boys became fascinated by tales of horror and pornography. He insisted Ned was just going through a “stage.” Maybe I accepted Rex’s diagnosis of Ned’s behavior because I wanted to believe him. More likely, I was running from an appalling fear that had been haunting me for months. I probably don’t have to warn you of all people, Chyna, that you should never ignore your instincts about people. If only I hadn’t ignored mine.

Around this time, a girl was gang-raped by four boys. The girl was able to identify two of the boys. Both were part of a group Ned considered his best friends. Ned was questioned in relation to the rape, but he had an alibi, although it was shaky at best. We tried to keep as much of this ugliness from you as possible, Chyna.

Of course Chyna had heard rumors of the rape at school, but several conflicting stories existed and soon the whole

matter seemed to have become top secret. No one knew who had been raped, and no one had been charged with the rape. It had all seemed so horrifying, so far from her own protected world, that Chyna had not let herself dwell on the matter. She didn’t want to spark the visions she had been trying hard to suppress for over a year.

I don’t need to tell you the next tragedy we suffered—the loss of dear Zoey. Had she been killed, the incident would have been awful, but to have her just vanish, to not know if she was dead or alive being starved and tortured, was to that point the most horrifying time of my life. Of yours, too, Chyna. I don’t think you ’d ever known true grief until then, but it was at least a year before I saw you genuinely smile again.

I desperately didn ’t want to suspect Ned. I didn ’t try to find out where he was that night. And later, when he’d go out at night, I never asked him where he went and he never offered an explanation. Then, near Christmas over a year after Zoey, I happened to be awake, sitting in the dark in the living room, when he came in at two in the morning. I turned on a lamp and he stood in front of me, sweating and disheveled, with what I can only describe as a feral look on his face. He didn’t say a word—he just went up to bed. The next day I learned that Heather Phelps had gone missing, just like Zoey.

Only one more page of the letter remained, but Chyna couldn’t even look at it. She felt dizzy and slightly nauseated. She wanted to stuff the letter back in the bag, throw it into the fireplace, and set the biggest fire she could manage. But she knew this horror was not over. The trinkets still lay in front of her like small, pathetic offerings begging for her to touch them, pleading with her to let them tell
their
story.

Slowly, Chyna reached out and touched a slender silver bracelet bearing the initials “HCP.” “Heather Carol Phelps,” Chyna said aloud, although she had not known Heather’s middle name until that instant. Then the vision hit so hard

Chyna thought she’d be thrown from the chair. A blond teenage girl after dark on a deserted side street On one corner of die street Chyna could see a lighted Christmas wreath decorating a mundane streetlight. The girl walked slowly, looking in all the windows, smiling occasionally, looking happy, excited, young.

She had reached the end of the street and stood for a moment on the corner, waiting to cross to the other side of the sidewalk, when a figure stepped out of the darkness behind one of the buildings. Chyna couldn’t tell much about the figure with a parka and ski mask, but it was around six feet tall, obviously a man, and slender. He crept up on the girl so quietly she barely had time to let out a squeak before he had one gloved hand over her mouth and an arm around her midriff. She wriggled in his grasp, but in a moment he’d jerked her onto the heels of her shoes with her legs stuck straight out in front of her and lowered her so close to the sidewalk she didn’t have room to kick.

Chyna could feel the girl’s heart pounding. She could feel her confusion, her terror. Then, in what seemed only an instant, the man dragged the girl behind a building and covered her face with a cloth—a heavy, sweet-smelling cloth.

The vision ended as abruptly as it had begun. Chyna sat rock-still in her chair, sweat covering her face and her palms, her hands shaking, her breath coming deep and rough. The abduction of Heather Phelps, she thought dully. Heather out Christmas shopping, having a good time that ended so tragically.

“Oh God,” Chyna moaned, then folded her arms and put her head down on them. She knew Heather hadn’t been killed immediately—otherwise he would not have needed chloroform, just like he did with Deirdre. No, this person, this monster, as Chyna now thought of him, liked to keep them alive awhile. He enjoyed their fear. He reveled in their desperation.

Next Chyna picked up a slim length of red velvet ribbon. She saw it drawn through thick, dark hair, hair shining even in the moonlight. The girl with the ribbon walked quickly,

nervously looking at a cheap watch on her left wrist. She wore a thin coat and she carried a backpack. Edie Larson, Chyna thought with dread. Edie walking home after play rehearsal on a narrow path beside the highway. Suddenly a black Lincoln pulled in front of her.

Edie stopped abruptly. Then the front car door opened and a young dark-haired man wearing sunglasses and a suit stepped out. He smiled. “Edie Larson?” She nodded. “Don’t look so afraid, dear. I only wanted to tell you I watched your rehearsal of
Our Town
and I thought you were wonderful.”

Edie looked flustered. “Thank you. I messed up a line in one scene, but I’ll have it down by next week. No mistakes.”

“I’m sure there won’t be.” The man took one tiny step toward her. “My name is James Chadwick and I work in the theater circuit, especially around New York,” he said. “I’m what in the old days they called a talent scout. I was traveling through Black Willow, and when I heard there was going to be a play rehearsal at the high school, I decided to drop by.” He smiled conspiratorily. “Actually, I thought I might be stopping in for a few laughs. Some of these high school productions …” He shrugged. Edie giggled guiltily, a bit nervously.

“I was particularly impressed with the way you could project your voice without losing any nuances of the character’s speech,” he said quickly. Another small step toward her.

“Really?” Edie breathed, thinking he looked vaguely familiar, except for the dark hair.

“Yes, really. I believe with just a few acting lessons and a little more experience with stage movements, you could be a star. Of course, that may not appeal to you at all.”

“Oh yes!” Edie trilled. “I want more than anything to act in Broadway plays, even though I haven’t seen any Broadway plays.”

“There’s a lot you haven’t seen.” In a flash, he was behind her, his hand over her mouth, leaning her back just like he had Heather. “There’s a whole world you haven’t seen, Edie.” He placed the white cloth over her face. “And I’m going to show it all to you.”

Suddenly Chyna was back at her mother’s desk, holding the red ribbon from Edie Larson’s hair in her hand. She dropped it as if it were a poisonous snake. Sweat poured down the side of her face and her heart beat so hard it felt as if it might fracture a rib. Daylight saving time had ended and already the evening was closing in, a soft gray evening pressing at the windows, shadows lurking in the corner. Michelle had curled up at Chyna’s feet and she reached down, rubbing the dog’s ears. Michelle licked her hand. This was how they sat most evenings, with Chyna reading medical books and Michelle right beside her, waiting for the occasional pat or ear rub and, at the end of study time, a beef-basted biscuit.

And that’s how it should be tonight, Chyna thought. I can’t go on with this. She was tired, she felt sick physically and emotionally, and her head was beginning to ache fiercely. But no matter how she felt, one more object on the desk seemed to call out to her, and she was helpless to resist holding it in her hand—a four-leaf-clover necklace. Zoey’s necklace.

Zoey had bought them matching necklaces when they were fifteen, and Chyna had worn hers faithfully ever since Zoey’s disappearance. She wore it now. All of these years, she’d pictured Zoey wearing her own necklace, even if she were nothing except a skeleton by now. Instead, here it lay, still clean and sparkling, right in front of her.

Chyna’s hand crept toward the necklace almost as if the hand belonged to someone else. Finally, her middle finger touched the chain and she quickly grabbed it before nerves overtook her.

Chyna expected to be rocked by a vision as soon as she touched Zoey’s necklace. Instead, she seemed swallowed in cloying, complete obscurity. Puzzled, she closed her eyes and tightened her grip on the clover pendant so tightly she could feel the edges jabbing painfully against her skin. The smothering, unnatural gloom lightened into the sweet, warm, velvety darkness of a summer’s night, and suddenly Chyna could see what had happened twelve years earlier.