P. Parrish - South Of Hell

“Amy, come sit down,” Joe said gently, patting the sofa.

Amy let the drape fall and slowly came to the sofa, perching on its edge. Her eyes were locked on Joe, expectant, as if she was waiting for more questions.

“Why did you leave Hudson to go back to the farm?” Joe asked.

“I don’t know,” Amy said. “I just knew I had to go. Aunt Geneva told me I should never go back there. She told me bad things happened there a long time ago and that it was an evil place. But I had to go back anyway.”

“What exactly did your aunt tell you?” Joe asked.

“She told me lots of stories,” Amy said. “But I can’t remember them.”

“Do you remember the things you told me at the farm?”

“I was alone at the farm. I’ve never talked to you before.”

Joe was quiet. She was beginning to suspect Amy had some sort of blackout at the farm, maybe a weird kind of seizure that had triggered her childlike state and a temporary amnesia. A medical condition like that might explain her need for deep sleep and her nonsensical jabber.

“Can I eat now?” Amy asked.

“Of course you can.” Joe started for the phone. “How about I order-”

Amy knelt and dragged her backpack from under the coffee table. Joe watched as Amy unzipped it and pulled out a can of sardines, setting it on the table.

“Amy, wouldn’t you rather have a pizza?” Joe asked.

“I can only eat what is on the list,” Amy said. She began carefully to roll back the tin’s top.

Joe set the phone down, went to the kitchenette, and brought back a plate and a fork. She set it in front of Amy on the coffee table. Joe watched as Amy sat cross-legged on the floor, picking the sardines from the can with her fingers, ignoring the plate and the fork. When she went to wipe her oily hands on her shirt, Joe caught her wrist and handed her a towel.

Amy used the tip, then tucked the towel into her collar, like a bib. She didn’t look up, and she didn’t make a sound for five minutes. Then she wiped her fingers again, dabbed at her mouth, and carefully rolled the tin top on the can flat. Still without a word, she picked up the plate and the can and walked to the sink.

The unused plate went back into the cupboard, and Amy reached down to the lower cupboard to throw away the can. Her fingers paused an inch from the knob. She was frozen.

“Just put the can in the sink, Amy.”

“There’ll be ants if I leave it.”

“No, there won’t. Put the can in the sink.”

Amy closed her eyes. “I’m very tired.”

Joe went to her and took the can. Amy’s eyes were glazing over. Set off by memories of the cupboard back at the farm?

“Why don’t you go into the bedroom and sleep now?” Joe said.

“Will you stay here with me?”

“Yes.”

Amy walked to the bedroom, her step a little unsteady. Joe followed, stopping at the door to watch her. Amy went to the closet and pulled a spare blanket from the top shelf.

Joe thought she simply wanted to sleep on top of the flowered spread, but Amy set the blanket on the floor in the corner, then knelt to arrange it in an almost perfect square. When she seemed satisfied, she curled up on it, pulling the extra over her shoulders.

“Amy, why are you sleeping on the floor?”

“So I can hear you if you call to me in the night. Would you please turn out the light? I’m not afraid of the dark.”

Joe flipped the switch, but she didn’t move away from the door. The shadows grew deep, the only light a faint glow from the living room behind her. She could not take her eyes off the small girl huddled on the floor. And she could not stop the images her mind was churning up of things that may have happened at the farmhouse or on Locust Street.

Then she heard something.

She thought it was the chirp of a bird but it was too soft, too childlike.

Joe stepped closer to Amy.

The sound was coming from the folds of the blanket. Amy was singing.

“Catch Don… set a seal… oh do you know so sweet, you and me, Pearl, no matter hurt… New rips in two in stormy…”

Amy’s voice trailed off as she fell asleep.

Joe was napping on the sofa when she heard the rattle of the hotel-room door. It was followed by a soft knocking, and she rose, glancing at the clock. Almost midnight. Through the peephole, she saw Shockey’s pitted face.

She opened the door for Shockey, and Louis followed, carrying a cardboard box, which he set on the coffee table.

“You got my note,” Joe said.

“Yeah,” Louis said. He glanced around the room. “This is a big improvement. Expensive?”

“We’ll split the cost,” Joe said with a small smile.

“Where’s Amy?” Louis asked.

“Asleep,” Joe said, nodding toward the door she had left ajar.

Louis took off his jacket and moved immediately to the pizza box sitting on the table. Joe went to the small fridge to get him a beer.

“You want one, Detective?” she asked.

Shockey shook his head.

Joe grabbed a Heineken for Louis and poured herself a glass of wine. “So, is there really an Aunt Geneva?” she asked.

Louis was eating, and Shockey answered. “Yeah,” he said. “Right where the girl said she’d be. Looks like she died of some kind of cancer. But they’re doing an autopsy anyway. From what Louis told me about this girl, she sounds a little loony, and we need to make sure the girl didn’t murder the old bag.”

“You should have seen this place, Joe,” Louis said. “This old house out in the sticks, and the inside was like no one had cleaned it in years. No wonder the poor kid-”

Joe held up a hand, looked toward the open door of the bedroom, and went to close the door before she turned back to Shockey and Louis. “I think Amy is a lot closer to normal than we first thought,” she said.

“What do you mean?” Louis asked.

“When she woke up here, she was very sensible,” Joe said. “Except for being shy and maybe a little emotionally stunted, she carried on a normal conversation.”

Louis picked up a second slice of pizza. “She say anything more about Brandt?”

Joe shook her head. “Nothing important. She didn’t remember us being at the farmhouse or that she had even spoken to me before.”

Shockey scratched his chin. “That doesn’t sound normal to me,” he said.

“I know it sounds strange,” Joe said, “but what if she has some medical condition that causes her to have waking blackouts?”

“Easy enough to check out,” Shockey said. “I’ve worked with a lot of doctors in town. I’ll find her one.”

“Yeah,” Louis said, “but not tonight. It’s late. Let her sleep.”

Shockey glanced at Louis. Joe suspected the topic of what to do with Amy had been discussed already.

“Look, Louis,” Shockey said, “it was everything I could do to stop my lieutenant from calling Family Services this afternoon. He agreed to wait until I got a chance to evaluate the girl myself. But we have to call them. You know we do.”

“It’s midnight,” Louis said.

“They get calls at midnight all the time. It’s their job.”

Louis tossed the slice of pizza back into the box, walked to the bedroom door, and opened it. Joe could tell by the subtle stiffening of his shoulders that he was looking at Amy curled up on the floor.

“Is there any way they would give us temporary custody of her?” Louis asked as he quietly closed the door.

“Us?” Joe asked.

Louis looked to her. “Yes.”

“Louis, I have a job to go back to,” she said. “I’m supposed to be there tomorrow. I can’t stay here to babysit this girl because you can’t stand the idea of her going into the system.”