Kathryn Fox: Blood Born

Even so, Anya understood that Giverny would find being cross-examined lonely enough without feeling abandoned by the very people who had encouraged her to testify.

Mary pulled into the driveway and kept the engine running. “You can listen for traffic reports,” she said, turning up the radio.

Mary walked up to the front door, sunglasses over her unruly mop of gray hair. The counselor waited, hands on her hips. Anya knew they were all edgy about today’s court appearance. She watched Mary knock again. When there was no response the counselor raised her arms to the sky and came back to the car.

“Maybe she’s in the bathroom and can’t hear.” Anya pulled out her mobile and dialed Giverny’s number. “It’s diverting to Message Bank.”

Mary moved around to the back of the house; when she returned to the front she cupped her hand around her eyes and peered in through the windows.

“Curtains are all drawn and I can’t see a thing,” she called.

Anya stepped out of the car, the chills returning to her body. She noticed the garage door slightly ajar. Security obsessed since the attack, it was unlike the young woman to leave anything undone or unlocked. The hairs on the back of Anya’s neck prickled.

Bending down, she yanked on the garage door handle, which clunked in resistance before giving way. The door moved upward and light flooded the area.

Across the doors and rooftop of Giverny’s blue Morris Minor were scrawled DIE SLUT in large red letters. The back wall was covered with LYING BITCH .

The words were like a punch to Anya’s stomach. After seeing what the Harbourn brothers were capable of, she feared the worst.

“Giverny!” she yelled, her hands trembling as she dialed emergency on her mobile. “It’s Anya and Mary. Can you hear us?”

Mary entered the garage and covered her mouth in shock. “God, no-”

Anya hoped her instincts were wrong but she remained careful. “This could be a crime scene. Wait here for the police and don’t touch anything. I’m going inside.”

Mary stood in silence, staring at the car. Anya stepped around the vehicle, careful not to brush against it. With a cloth from a shelf at the back, she turned the handle of the inside access door and retuned the cloth to its original position.

Moving the door open with her foot, she whispered, “Please be okay.”

In the tiled living area there was enough daylight to see the rolled, unopened newspaper on the table, along with a neat pile of papers. She took a breath. The place hadn’t been trashed so maybe the Harbourns hadn’t made it inside.

Just maybe.

“Giverny. Can you hear me?” she shouted. Beads of perspiration covered her neck and forehead. The kitchen was clean and there weren’t any plates left out from breakfast.

A door banged behind Anya and she jumped.

“What the hell’s going on? Where’s our daughter?”

Bevan Hart pushed past Anya into the corridor, presumably toward the bedroom. His wife Val followed.

“I told you we should have stayed with her.”

Turning the corner, Anya stopped, just as someone let out a guttural sound behind her. Val Hart had seen the same thing.

Giverny Hart knelt on the floor with her head slumped forward in a praying position. Attached to the front door handle was a cord. The other end disappeared around the girl’s neck.

Anya rushed forward and felt for a peripheral pulse. The right wrist was limp and cold, but she felt a beat. It bounded-too hard for such a cold limb. Anya timed it with her own carotid. The pulses beat in perfect time. They were both her own. Damn!

“Do something!” the father begged.

With two hands, she lifted the girl’s face. It still had some heat. Encouraged, she felt for any sign of a neck pulse.

Giverny’s left index finger was trapped beneath the cord, as if trying to release the pressure.

“This can’t be happening,” Bevan Hart muttered and stepped back. Mary was quickly at the parents’ side. She must have heard the wife’s howl.

“Mr. Hart, we need you to call an ambulance,” Anya instructed. “Your daughter needs your help right now.”

He responded and disappeared. The counselor moved over to Anya. “What do we do?”

Anya grappled with the cord but it dug too deep into the girl’s flesh.

“She’s still warm. I can’t get the cord off her neck. It’s pulled too tight. Get a knife or scissors as fast as you can.” She tried to sound calm. She needed their help and quickly.

Mary ran off with Val.

Anya tried slipping her hands under the girl to lift her and relieve the pressure caused by the pull from the door handle, but she knew it was useless. The cord had tightened when the head slumped forward. No height needed for this hanging.

“It’s okay, Giverny, we’re here now,” she offered. “You’re going to be all right.”

Something crashed in the kitchen, then Mary appeared with two different sized knives. One could have carved a chicken, the other was a boning knife with a pointed end.

“Cut her from the door first.”

Mary chose the larger knife and handed the other to Anya.

Trying to hold the head upright, Anya used the smaller one to cut where Sophie’s finger held the noose slightly away from her neck.

On the first attempt she nicked the neck and blood trickled out, making the cord slippery.

She felt the body drop. Mary had cut the cord above her head. She laid the girl flat on her back and this time the cord gave way. The left hand did not move. The young woman’s lips were blue and her face a dusky shade.

Anya felt again for the carotid pulse. Nothing.

She lifted the girl’s head up and back, pinched the nose and breathed twice into the mouth.

Come on! This isn’t over.

Moving to the chest, she clenched her fingers, one hand on top of the other and began cardiac massage. Thirty short, sharp pressures then two more breaths. She heard a rib crack but kept going. She had to, for Giverny’s sake. After a few rounds her fingers cramped but she kept going.

She heard a siren in the distance and Mary left to flag it down. She barely noticed Bevan behind her when the paramedics appeared.

“I’m Matt,” one of them announced. “What have we got?” He placed his pack on the floor.

Breathless and exhausted, Anya continued to pump the heart as the second paramedic, a female, pulled out a face mask and oxygen tank.

“Giverny Hart. Seventeen years old. We found her on her knees, with a cord attached from the door knob to her neck.”

Matt shot a look at his partner.

“How long have you been going?”

It felt like hours had passed, but Anya had no idea how many minutes she had been attempting to resuscitate.

“I started the exact time you were phoned.” Anya knew that all calls were logged.

The paramedic checked his watch. “We’ll follow our protocol. Let’s intubate and see if we’ve got a rhythm.”

Anya stopped pumping long enough for him to cut open Sophie’s shirt and place three leads on the girl’s chest, which he then connected to a portable ECG machine.

“Asystole.”

“I’m in,” the partner said, letting them know she had intubated her patient. “If there’s no other access, I’ll try adrenalin from here.”

Anya moved back as the paramedic squirted a syringe filled with adrenalin into the endotracheal tube.

The small cardiac monitor remained unchanged. The line was flat.

“Anyone know the medical and drug history?” Matt asked, trying to get a cannula into Sophie’s arm.

Anya turned around but Mary must have removed the parents from the horrific scene.

“She was otherwise well, apart from an assault last year. She’s supposed to testify in court this morning.”