Chevy Stevens - Still Missing

He gave a sad smile.

“I did feel safe with you, but now no one can make me feel safe. I have to get there on my own.”

He nodded. “I can understand that.”

“Good, now can you help me understand this damn program of yours?”

He laughed.

About twenty minutes later we were done and just as I was debating whether to invite him to stay for dinner, he said he should get back to the restaurant. At the door he stepped toward me, hesitated for a second, then raised his eyebrows and—just slightly—his arms. I moved toward him and he folded me into a hug. For a minute I felt trapped and wanted to wrench free, but I buried my nose in his shirt and inhaled the aroma of his restaurant—oregano, baked bread, garlic. He smelled like long dinners with friends, like too much wine and laughter, like happiness.

Against my hair, he murmured, “It was really good to see you, Annie.” I nodded and as we slowly pulled apart, I kept my eyes down until I’d blinked back the tears. Later, I wondered if he would have stayed for dinner if I’d asked, but my regret was balanced with relief over not having to hear him say no. I used to be so good at quick decisions, but ever since I killed The Freak I’ve lived in perpetual hesitation. I remember reading once that if you have a bird that’s lived in a cage for a long time and you leave the cage door open, the bird won’t leave right away. I never understood that before.

I’d fallen asleep on the bed, where I’d collapsed after killing The Freak, and the throbbing of my breasts woke me—my milk was still drying up. My first awareness was of the keys gripped in my hand. I’d held them so tight while I slept that they’d left marks in my skin. In my sleepy confusion over why I had the keys and fear that The Freak would catch me with them, I let go. The jingle they made falling onto the bed startled me out of my haze. He was dead. I’d killed him.

My bladder urged me to the bathroom, but I checked the watch and saw I had ten minutes to wait. When I tried to go anyway, my bladder froze. Ten minutes later, no problem.

On my way back to the bed, my leg brushed the baby’s blanket on her basket. I picked it up and pressed my face into it, breathing in the last traces of her scent. My daughter was still out there—alone. I had to find her.

I pulled on a white dress and stuffed my bra with cloths dampened with cold water for breast pads. After grabbing some slippers, I headed back down to the river and searched its shores in either direction until trees or sheer cliffs blocked my path. From a distance, any pale boulders the size of a baby stopped my breath until I was close. A bundle of cloth snagged on a tree in the middle of the river had my knees wobbling until I waded out and realized it was nothing but rags. When I wasn’t able to find any trace of her there, I examined the clearing inch by inch for any signs of disturbed earth but I couldn’t find a thing.

I even dug my hands through the soft garden dirt surrounding the cabin—I wouldn’t have put it past the sick bastard to bury her where we planted food—and crawled under the porch. Nothing. The only place I hadn’t searched yet was the shed.

The summer sun had been beating down on the metal shed all morning, and as the door opened, the odor of his already decomposing body rushed toward me in a nauseating wave. I grabbed a gasoline-scented rag off the bench and held it against the bottom of my face. Then, concentrating on breathing through my mouth, I tiptoed past his body. Flies that had hitched a ride in with his corpse the day before hummed around the tarp, as loud as the generator.

With trembling hands I dug everything out of the freezer. She wasn’t in there, and the shelves held nothing but lanterns, batteries, kerosene, and ropes. I found a trapdoor with stairs to a root cellar, its dank scent fresh compared to the stench of death above. All it contained was canned foods, house hold items, a first aid kit, some boxes, and in an old coffee can a roll of money with a pink hair elastic wrapped around it. I hoped the elastic didn’t belong to another girl who’d been hurt. It wasn’t a lot of money, so I figured he had more stashed elsewhere. His wallet still hadn’t showed up, not in his pocket when I grabbed the keys or in any of the cupboards in the cabin, but I’d never seen him with one. One of the keys hadn’t fit any locks yet and I hoped it was for the van, hidden somewhere, his wallet inside.

In a wooden crate I discovered a rifle, a handgun, and ammo. I stared down at them. I’d never really seen the gun he threatened me with the first day, only felt it in my back and saw the butt of it in his waistband. It looked small next to the rifle, but I hated them both. One had killed the duck and one had forced me into this hell. My hand moved for just a second to the spot on my lower back where it had been pressed. I closed the crate and shoved it behind some others.

Each time I opened a box I was afraid I might discover my baby’s body shoved inside, something that needed to be stored away and neatly labeled “Practice.” But the final box only held my yellow suit and all my photos and newspaper ads. When I opened it I caught a trace of my perfume and I pressed the soft material against my nose. I tried the blazer on over my dress but it felt wrong to wear it—like I’d put on a dead girl’s clothes. I left the suit in the box and only took the photo of me I thought was from my office as I headed back up and out into the light.

The only area I hadn’t searched was the surrounding forest, so after I drank some cold water, I stuffed an old packsack I’d found in the cellar with protein bars, the first aid kit, and a Thermos of water. I was about to head out when I spotted the photo on the counter next to my baby’s blanket and one of her sleepers. I added them all to my packsack of treasures.

Soon after I stepped into the forest on the right side of the cabin, the steady rush of the river and the chirp of the birds that usually clustered in the clearing faded and the only sounds were my footsteps muffled by the blanket of fir needles covering the ground. I spent the rest of the afternoon climbing over and under dead logs, digging at every slight mound, and sniffing the air for any trace of rot. I never went into the woods any deeper than fifteen minutes from the cabin and worked my way toward the highest point of the clearing in a sweeping radius.

When I finally made it to the top, I discovered a narrow trail at the edge of the woods heading into the forest. Crowded with salal and lady ferns, it was a vague line discernible only by the odd faded machete mark on the tree trunks. Some of the trees, Douglas firs reaching higher than I could see, were a couple of feet around and their trunks were blanketed in moss, which meant it was a moist forest. I was probably still on Vancouver Island.

I looked back at the clearing one final time and prayed that if there was a heaven—and I’ve never wanted to believe more than in that moment—then my baby was with my dad and Daisy.

As I headed down the trail, I spotted a possible break in the tree line in the distance and after another five minutes I stepped out of the woods onto an old gravel road. Judging by the potholes and lack of tire tracks, it hadn’t been used for a while. About ten feet down, the bank dipped in slightly on the right.

Moving toward it, I realized the dip was the start of a smaller road veering off the main one. The Freak would’ve had to hide the van close to the cabin, so I decided to follow it. Not much wider than a truck, it was covered in grass and if you were driving by you probably wouldn’t even notice it. It curved around to run parallel to the main road, about twenty feet of trees between the two.

Farther down the road I came across a small white bone, and my feet stopped along with my heart. I scanned the ground inch by inch, then found a bone too large for my baby, and within a few feet I nearly stumbled on the skeleton of a deer.