P. Parrish - South Of Hell

“Who are your parents, Amy?” Joe asked.

“My mother’s name is Jean,” Amy said. “My father…” She dropped her head, and her face disappeared behind her hair.

“Is your father’s name Owen?” Louis asked.

Amy’s eyes shot up to Louis, and she took a step back.

“Joe,” he said, “you’d better ask the questions. She doesn’t seem to want to talk to me.”

Joe went closer to Amy. The girl didn’t shrink away, but she was watching Joe’s every move, her wariness not easing until she was sure Joe was coming no closer.

This was a familiar scene, Joe thought. For most of the years she had worn a police uniform, this had been her territory: quieting the crying child, taking the statement from the rape victim, or comforting the woman whose boyfriend had knocked out her front teeth. At one time, she had resented it, this assumption by the men that she had some magic connection by virtue of her sex. But the feeling had lessened when she made detective at Miami Dade Police Department as her understanding had grown that her empathy was her greatest tool.

“Is Owen your father, Amy?” Joe asked.

Amy hesitated, then nodded.

Joe wasn’t sure where to go next. “How old are you?” she asked.

Amy looked up at Louis, as if this question were too personal to answer in front of a man.

“It’s okay,” Joe said. “He won’t hurt you.”

“I’m thirteen.”

Amy shivered and glanced down to the cupboard, wanting something from there but afraid to reach for it. Joe bent down and grabbed a jacket, also taking note of the other items inside. A small, filthy blanket, a blue backpack with a cartoon animal on it, and a plastic milk bottle filled with water.

Amy’s jacket resembled something an older woman would wear, clean but ripped in the sleeve. Joe checked it for any weapons or ID but didn’t find either. She draped it over Amy’s shoulders. Amy chose to slip her arms into the sleeves and held it closed over her chest.

“Where do you live, Amy?” Joe asked.

“I live here now,” Amy said. “I have kin here.”

Suddenly, Amy pushed away from the wall and rushed to the closed door that led to the hall. The knob was loose, and she couldn’t get it to turn.

“Amy,” Joe said. “Stop.”

“I need to hide.”

Joe grabbed her gently by the shoulders. Amy spun around and smacked Joe in the face. Then she froze, hands in the air, eyes clouded with confusion.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Amy said. “Please don’t put me in the hole. Please.”

Joe rubbed her cheek, her mind already conjuring up images of what “the hole” could be. “It’s okay, Amy,” she said. “No one is going to hurt you.”

“Joe, she said someone was dead,” Louis said. “Ask her about that.”

Joe looked over her shoulder at Louis. “We don’t know what this girl has been through, Louis,” she said in a low voice. “We don’t even know where she came from. She might have run away-”

“I didn’t run away,” Amy whispered, slumping against the door. “I came home. I’m so tired. Can I sleep now?”

Louis took a step forward. Amy either heard the creak of the floorboard or sensed his movement, and her eyes snapped up, wary and wide.

Joe motioned Louis back again.

“You have to ask her,” Louis said.

Joe turned back to the girl. “Amy, you said that someone was dead. Do you remember that?”

Amy’s eyes jumped around the kitchen. “I don’t want to be here. Something bad happened here.” Her eyes came back to Joe. “Can we go to the parlor?”

“Why the parlor?” Joe asked.

“I’m supposed to wait. I think I’m supposed to wait there. Can we go to the parlor, please?”

Joe nodded. Amy seemed to know exactly where she was going, walking a direct but unsteady path down the hall.

There was only one place to sit — the piano stool. Joe thought Amy would take that seat as hers, but she didn’t. She sat down on the floor near the front window, back against the wall, knees up. Here, away from the kitchen, at least she seemed calmer. Joe stood by the piano. Louis stayed back by the door.

“Can you tell me now, Amy?” Joe asked. “Who is dead?”

“Aunt Geneva.”

“Do you know how she died?” Joe asked gently.

“No,” Amy whispered. “She got sick. She was sick for a long time. I had to cook noodles and wash her with the blue cloth. She only liked the blue cloth, not the yellow ones. She smelled bad sometimes.”

“So you lived with Aunt Geneva,” Joe said.

Amy nodded.

“How old were you when she got sick?”

“I don’t know.”

“Think. How big were you?”

“I had to use a step stool to do the dishes.”

Joe let out a soft sigh. “Do you remember where Aunt Geneva lived?”

“One-seven-three-oh-four Locust. Like the bug. One-seven-three-oh-four Locust in Hudson, Michigan. From the school, take Bagley Avenue to Elm Street, go three more blocks, and turn right on Locust. Last house on the left.”

Joe glanced at Louis. He had a notebook out and was writing things down. At least they had an address now. But Joe wasn’t sure where to go next with her questions. She looked around the parlor. Amy had said she had to wait in here. For what? Or for whom?

Joe crouched down so she was even with Amy. “Why do you have to wait here, Amy?”

“I’m waiting for Momma,” Amy said. She put her head down on her knees.

Joe looked up at Louis. He had stopped writing, and she knew what he was thinking: Was it possible Jean Brandt was still alive? Had she told her daughter to meet her here?

Joe touched Amy’s arm. The girl’s eyes came up. The wariness was gone. She just looked exhausted now.

“Did your mother tell you she was coming here?”

Amy nodded. “She said she’d be here in the morning.”

“When did you last see her?”

“The other night.”

“ Where did you see her?” Joe asked.

“In my dream.”

Joe sighed. “Have you seen your mother when you’re awake?”

“No, but sometimes I can hear her.”

Joe looked up at Louis again and gave a subtle shake of her head.

“Ask her about her father, Joe,” Louis said.

“I don’t think we should right now,” Joe said evenly.

“He hurt Momma,” Amy said suddenly. “He hurt her bad.”

Joe’s eyes shot back to Amy.

“I’m so tired,” Amy whispered. “It’s over now.”

She closed her eyes, as if she were succumbing to a powerful drug. Seconds later, she went limp. Joe caught her as she tipped over and lowered her gently to the floor. Joe checked her pulse. It was strong. But they still had to get her to a doctor and have her checked out.

Joe rose and went to Louis. “You stay here with her,” she said. “I’ll drive down the road and call the Livingston County sheriff.”

“I think we need to keep her with us,” Louis said.

“What?”

“She could be a witness, Joe. She could have seen Jean’s murder.”

“Do you hear yourself?” she asked. “You’re a thirty-year-old man who wants to keep a runaway teenager with you against her will. That’s kidnapping.”

Her words seemed to register some reality with him. He dropped his head for a moment, then rubbed his brow. “Joe, you know what foster care is like,” he said. “And she may not even get that far. She’ll probably end up in a state hospital.”

“Louis, we have no choice. By law, I have to turn her in.”

“Then let’s take her back to Ann Arbor,” he said. “She’s Jean’s daughter, and Shockey will make sure she gets the best home available. And legally, she’ll be in police custody.”

“No,” Joe said. “She belongs to Livingston County. And that’s where I’m taking her.”