Makaila 11 to 20

 

11

 

Having heard the tractor stop in the distance and rushing through the woods, Makaila found Joseph kneeling, blood up to his elbow, his fist wrapped around the old farm dog’s leg.

“Got in the cutter. Can’t let go of the leg.” He looked off toward the farmhouse, a mile north. “You gotta go get help.”

Makaila looked carefully at the combinations and permutations, the time to do this and time to do that. She nodded to Joseph. “Help is here.”

She tucked his ball cap back on his head.

“I watched you drive this tractor enough to get you back to the house.” She lifted the cutting bar, locking it in place. Joseph raised the dog in both arms, holding tight to the wound.

Makaila sat, went into a stare and duplicated the actions she saw Joseph do so many times. He climbed on the cutting bar platform. Makaila hooked an arm in his. “I’ve been wanting a shot at this, but not this way.”

He nodded, his brows furrowed and lips tight. “Just get us back to the house.”

Makaila wrestled with the tractor and wrestled to keep Joseph onboard. She was surprised, the faith he put in her, resolved to circumstances. He made a mistake in his vigil, safeguarding the cutting of the field. He knew the dog ran around the tractor chasing the rodents hiding within the hay. Joseph must have turned his attention for just a second, and he didn’t feel good about it.

At the house, Makaila flew inside, not finding Marcy. She thought to ring the bell, then thought again. She grabbed the truck keys and climbed in the driver’s side, Joseph already sat in the passenger side with the dog on his lap. Without a word, she started the truck and dropped the lever in drive.

Toward the end of the lane, Joseph let out a long sigh. “Did you ever drive one of these things before?”

She smiled at him sideways. “Ask me again in half an hour.”

 

Marcy carefully wrote the story and sent the letter to Aunt Harriet for the newsletter, with a note to make sure Makaila’s parents were put back on the list. Marcy didn’t refer to Makaila by name, simply calling her the city girl. Makaila wanted space to get a breath. Makaila wanted time to shake herself out. She didn’t want to touch, or be touched by, her past life just yet. Marcy respected that.

 

12

Makaila understood the dog’s life had value simply because Joseph said it did. She didn’t need to understand beyond that. She didn’t feel the dog was important, yet she could see by looking, Joseph felt the dog important. Thus, she acted accordingly.

The subject of death was complex, and Makaila didn’t fully understand. Even with the late hour of her first night, she woke, with the chickens, as Joseph called it. Before the sun found the day, still in her nightgown, Joseph took Makaila to the barn and showed her how to feed and water the chickens.

After breakfast, Marcy hung clothes on Makaila and took her to town. Makaila picked out bibbed overalls, hiking boots, high-top sneakers and plaid shirts. Marcy insisted on a couple of dresses just in case, which Makaila insisted would be denim and simple. Makaila didn’t have anything against dresses. She thought having a dress meant she’d leave the farm someday. She didn’t want to face that until later, if ever.

The wardrobe was easy to pick out. She imagined what people expected her to look like, the lesson she learned from Zogg’s first session. She didn’t think what she wore mattered much. Makaila did feel good in her new clothes and in her new home.

 

“Everyone’s gotta work around here,” Joseph told her the first day. Chores made her feel needed, wanted and a part of things like she never felt before. Chores gave structure to her life. Her first daily chore was feeding and watering the chickens.

The chickens weren’t caged-in as Makaila thought they’d be. They had the run of the farm, often straying across the fields, up to the house and down the lane. “They’ll come back,” Joseph told her. “They know where they’re fed.”

After filling the feeder and scattering feed around, Makaila topped the water off and then gathered eggs. Joseph pointed out six nests to leave alone. “We’ll get new chickens from ‘em.”

She ate eggs all her life and knew eggs came from chickens. She never connected the two as much as she did when she actually saw it.

The first week, Joseph walked to the barn with Makaila. “How about chicken for dinner?” He grabbed a chicken and smartly broke its neck. “This one will do.”

On the way back to the house, Joseph cradled the dead chicken in his arm. Makaila watched the open eyes and limp head bounce with each step. Her mind raced to understand. “But, killing’s wrong?” The only chicken she ever saw came in plastic.

“Not really, all the time. We live off the land, Makaila. Everybody does, it’s just those that don’t have farms leave the killing.” He displayed the chicken. “To us.”

“So killing’s good?” She watched the chicken bounce.

 “In this case, killing’s very good. We eat the chicken and it gives us life.” He rubbed the top of her head. “The corn has life as does the potato and even herbs from Ma’s garden. We eat these things and get life.”

“I get it.” She made a mental note to ask Cat. She spent the morning learning to pluck, clean and butcher a chicken under the skilled guidance of Marcy.

 

The next morning before breakfast, Makaila filled the feeder, watered the chickens, gathered the eggs and promptly caught a chicken and broke its neck. On the third attempt at the twisting, the chicken fell limp. She set it carefully on the ground, ran down another, breaking its neck in one twist. With a nod, she placed it with the other chicken.

By the time Joseph came running to see what all the commotion was, Makaila had twenty chickens in a neat pile, about half the flock.

“Fiddlesticks!” He grabbed her by the shoulders as she dispatched another bird. “What are you doing!” He screamed in her face, dropping to his knees, shaking her.

Makaila froze, the appearance of the angry face in hers. She dropped her latest victim, her eyes to the ground. She waved a hand to the pile and raised tearful eyes to Joseph. “I thought I was doing good, Pops.” She tried to break away and run. He held her fast.

He looked at the child’s massacre. Fear filled him, thinking maybe the stories were true. He wanted to hit her. He wanted to protect himself. He wanted to yell again. Joseph took a deep breath instead, stood and held the child to him. He knew nothing could be gained acting out of anger. He felt the jerking of the sobbing child on his chest and listened to her cry.

He let moments pass alone with his thoughts, reflecting back on the day before. In his anger, he first thought she brought this with her. He released her and knelt again, producing his handkerchief. He carefully wiped her face. “Makaila, I’m sorry I yelled at you. I didn’t mean to. I was surprised and you know when you get surprised, like something jumps out at you, you yell. Understand me?”

She sniffed and nodded, carefully analyzing his face muscles and subtle body. She determined his anger had passed, replaced by mostly confusion but also fear. She looked at the combinations and permutations of events, trying to connect his reaction to her actions and see where her mistake was.

He sighed a long sigh, smiling the best he could. “Can you tell me why you did this? It doesn’t matter that you did this, it really doesn’t. What matters is that I understand why.”

“I thought I was doing good.” She looked toward the ground again. “I thought I was giving us life.”

Joseph stood, holding her again. “Oh, Makaila, this is my fault, not yours. You simply misunderstood what I said.”

The sun peeked from behind the house. Makaila pushed away and went to the pile of death. “We can’t eat all these for dinner tonight!”

Joseph removed his hat, ran a hand over his head and then snugged the hat back in place. “Nope.”

“I screwed up?” She turned from the pile to face Joseph. “I screwed up.” She nodded.

“You did.” He mocked her nod. “But, we can fix it.”

Makaila tried to think of how.

“Oh, you city girls. We’ll just have to take a trip over to see Ruby today.” He raised his eyebrows. “Ruby’s a butcher.”

Makaila lit up. “Chicken in plastic!”

Joseph nodded again. “Yup.” It was brown freezer wrap and not plastic. The idea was the same.

 

13

Ruby Mulberry was a pleasant man of large stature, both in body and community. He, like his father before him and his father before that, butchered and wrapped the livestock of his neighbors in exchange for a portion of the product.

“So you’re the young lady from back east?” Ruby asked as they unloaded the truck.

“Yeah.” Makaila held his eyes.

“Little early for the chickens?” Ruby addressed Joseph with a raised eyebrow.

“Well, you get around to things when you get around to things.”

“Can you do chickens?” Ruby asked Makaila.

Joseph nodded. “She’s done one.”

“Good. Leave the kid with me, and come back this afternoon.”

Joseph hesitated. Makaila took his hand. “I’ll be okay. Promise.”

Ruby put his arm around her shoulder. “Deal, then. I’ll even show you how to do a pig.”

Years of experience and skilled hands flew over a bird as Makaila watched in amazement. Ruby was better and quicker than Ma. Ruby told stories as he worked. Makaila realized he didn’t want help as much as he wanted company. She was allowed to watch.

As Ruby finished and wrapped the third bird, Makaila said: “Race you.”

He laughed aloud. “You? Race me?”

“Sure – why not?”

Ruby found an apron and gloves. “No handicap now.”

“Didn’t ask for one. One at a time or you want to go for five?”

He laughed again. “I’ll let you do one while I watch. I’ll give you some tips. Then, we’ll race.”

“I thought you said no handicap.” She placed a bird on the table and recalled what Ruby did. She shifted her consciousness and let her hands duplicate the actions. She was stiff. She was good.

As she applied the last piece of tape on the wrap, Ruby said: “You’ve only done this once?” He leaned toward her. “I think you’re a ringer.”

“Twice now. Do I get one more for practice?”

“Not a chance. I got my pride, you know.”

Ruby beat her easily through the five birds, but not soundly. She was on the fifth bird when he finished. “Very well done! You want to do the pig?”

She looked up at him. “I can’t. I’ve never seen it done.”

He thought looking toward the ceiling, tapping his chin with a finger. “You mean to tell me you learned to do the chickens just by watching me?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “You did. You cut ‘em up just like I do.”

“It’s a gift.”

“Well, if I ever need any help, I know who to call. Let’s get some lunch.”

 

As Makaila loaded boxes into the back of the truck, Joseph told Ruby: “Hope she wasn’t too much of a bother.”

“She didn’t get in the way too much.” Ruby winked. “She’s got good hands.”

Joseph was relieved. The chickens demonstrated as smart as Makaila was, she easily misunderstood things. Joseph told Marcy they’d have to be careful how they presented information.

“It’s not Makaila’s fault she doesn’t understand.”

 

14

“She’s not home.” No answer came from the receiver. “Did you hear me?”

He looked at the clock on the wall beside the door across his office. 4:05 P.M. “Maybe she went straight to that doctor’s.”

“They haven’t seen her, just got off the phone.”

He tried to imagine what kind of trouble his daughter got herself into this time. “Well, Cass, maybe she just got involved at a friend’s house or something like that.” Maybe she’s lying dead somewhere and that’ll solve a mess of problems.

“She’s never missed an appointment, not in three years. She wouldn’t miss an appointment. I don’t know what to do.”

A head appeared around his office door. “Got a few minutes, Ruddy?” His teen aide danced like she had to pee.

Waving the young woman in, he said into the telephone: “I don’t know what you expect me to do. I’ve got problems of my own here. This place doesn’t run itself, you know. I’ll be home regular time. We’ll talk about it then.” He hung up without waiting for a response. “More boyfriend problems?”

She nodded.

 

Catherine Carleton slammed the receiver onto the telephone body, dislodging it from the wall to hang from the wire. “Damn him! Damn her!”

Sixteen-year-old Larry rushed into the kitchen. “What is it, Mom?”

Makaila had been a parent’s worst nightmare, always in trouble and always doing or saying the wrong thing. Not a week would go by the school or a neighbor didn’t call. When she was six and seven, the therapists said it was just a phase she’d outgrow. It wasn’t and she didn’t. Nothing seemed to work until Dr. Zogg came along when she was nine years old.

Makaila wasn’t much better.

She took well to Zogg and only seemed to act better. Makaila developed the unnerving habit of staring for the longest time, as if she had x-ray vision, before responding to anything. Catherine and her husband, Ralph, watched Makaila’s every move and knew eventually something horrible would happen. Catherine didn’t know why her daughter couldn’t be more like Larry. Catherine and Ralph knew something was terribly wrong with Makaila. They had Larry to compare.

“Your sister’s not home.” She clenched her teeth.

Larry looked at the dangling telephone. “She missed her appointment?”

“Yes!”

“What did the police say?”

“I didn’t call.”

Larry swung the telephone around, twisted the wire to get a dial tone and punched 9-1-1. He lied, sort of. “My mom’s a mess and standing right here. My twelve-year-old sister is special-needs and can’t really care for herself. She’s missing.” After giving the address, he tried to reinstall the telephone, couldn’t, ripped the wires free and threw the mess across the kitchen. “They’re sending a car over.” His face reddened. “I’m riding over to the school to look for her.”

To Larry, his sister was impossible to understand. She had the social skills of a paperweight, always stepping on toes or goring sacred cows, all unintentionally. As unsettling as it was, Larry knew she was rarely wrong in her observations. He spent much of his time running interference or protecting her.

Larry would meet Makaila and walk her home from school most days, an obligation he took upon himself. No matter what anyone thought about Makaila, even his parents, he happened to like her, and not just because she was his sister. He saw her as a special person, something he couldn’t find within himself.

After school, he passed Makaila on his way to the library. In his mind, as he rode his bicycle back toward the school, he brought up the image of her back as she walked away. He wondered whether this would be the last image he’d have of her. He stopped to ask anyone and everyone if they’d seen her. Pausing briefly in front of the school where he saw her last, imagining he could pick up her scent, he followed the path they always walked.

On one of the secluded streets between the main streets, he found her small, red Harbrace along the curb. He scanned the rows of townhouses and banged on nearby doors. Waving the book, he described his sister and asked whether anyone saw her. No one had.

He returned home.

Larry skidded to a stop just as the two police officers came down the walk. “I found this!” He offered the book.

The two looked at each other and then back to Larry.

“It’s Makaila’s book. I know it is!” No one else in his school had a college Harbrace.

“We’ll look into it.” They continued to the car.

“Don’t you want to know where I found it?”

The older of the two police officers turned on him. “Look kid. With her history of mental problems, she’s probably just wandered off somewhere and will come back when she gets hungry.”

“Mental problems! Mental problems! She doesn’t have any mental problems!” He grabbed the policeman’s arm. “You gotta do something!”

The police officer sighed. “We are.” He showed the clipboard. “We’re going to file the report and be on the lookout for her.”

“Makaila! Makaila! Her name’s Makaila!” Tears raged in his eyes. “Why won’t anyone use her name?” He dropped to the ground, holding Makaila’s book to his chest. The police officers climbed in their patrol car and drove off as another car pulled to a stop.

 

15

Josephine McCarthy never took sick days, personal days or requested time off, with one exception. Each year, she requested November 4 well in advance as a personal day. November 4, 1997 she woke early, reviewed her notes and brought her four police scanners on line. She reviewed files, crosschecked notes, made guesses and jotted new notes as to what questions to ask and of whom.

And, she prayed. She prayed what she was listening for in the squelch and static of the scanners would never come. She hoped what she listened for would come, so there’d be more to correlate. She prayed it would never come.

After hours of file searching on the Internet, a scanner came to life at 4:17 P.M. Josephine scribbled the address and was out the door. She arrived just in time to see the patrol car pulling away.

She showed her badge to the child sitting on the pavement and lied, identifying herself as a detective. Larry told her the story and showed her the book.

“Let’s take a ride. Show me exactly where you found it.” Armed with the book and a picture of Makaila from Larry’s wallet, Josephine spent two hours canvassing the two-block area with no positive results.

Close to 7:00, Josephine walked into the Carleton house with Larry. She showed her badge and told the same lie. Ralph gave Larry a hard look, informed his son he was thirty minutes late for dinner and sent Larry to his room. Larry moved to protest, but with a glare from his father, he left without a word.

Ralph arrived home from work at 6:00 P.M. six days a week. He sat in front of the television, watched the news and drank two beers, six days a week. Dinner was promptly on the table at 6:30, six days a week. Turning on Josephine, Ralph summarily dismissed her. “You go do whatever detectives do. I have my dinner to finish.”

“I just have some questions –”

“Aren’t you good with the language? I said get out!”

She looked at her notes. “Your daughter is missing, Mr. Carleton.” She pointed her pen at him. “This won’t take long.”

Taking Josephine by the elbow, he opened the front door and pushed her outside, slamming the door.

Ralph looked around the curtain to make sure she was leaving. “Some nerve.” He returned to finish his dinner. “Making Larry miss dinner. He at least should have known better.”

“Larry’s worried about his sister, Ruddy.”

“Damn beer got warm, get me another.” He slammed the bottle down on the table. “I’m worried about getting the phone fixed. I’m worried about what this is going to cost us this time. I’m worried you’re going to keep me up half the night until she decides to come home.” He opened the bottle and drained half. “I can’t even finish dinner!” He waved his hand over the empty plate. “Clean these dishes up.” He climbed to his feet. “It’s time I had a serious talk with our son.”

Gathering dishes, she watched her husband’s back as he left the room. She was relieved his anger was directed away from her for a while at least.

 

Josephine stared at Makaila’s picture for a long time. She typed the data into a file and wrote the information on the back of the print. She sat back in her chair, comparing the standard profile. With a sip of bourbon, she wrote runaway with a question mark on the back of Makaila’s picture. Little doubt the child was at a friend’s house or some other hiding place.

“But, what about the book?”

 

Larry prayed, listening to his father shouting some place in the house. He wasn’t raised with religion, his father saying religion nonsense. Larry listened to his friends speak of God and faith and in the dark, in those moments, he wanted to believe in God and His angels who protect children. He didn’t know how to pray. He was told to just ask God for what he wanted.

Larry asked God to protect Makaila and keep her safe.

He knew he couldn’t sleep, lost to time until he felt a hand shaking him. Coming awake, he saw the glow of the clock showing a little after 5:00 A.M. In the fog of half-consciousness, he heard: “You gotta do something for me and you gotta really, really promise.”

Larry sat straight up. “Makaila!”

“Sh. You gotta hide this and keep it safe for me.” She forced her purse into his chest. “Don’t look in it, don’t give it to anyone, don’t tell anyone you have it.”

He nodded quickly. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. But, I don’t know for how long. I think I’m in big trouble.” She paused. “I’m not sure. I gotta talk to Dr. Zogg.” She put a hand on his cheek. “Keep it safe no matter what?”

He nodded quickly again against the darkness.

“Stay here. Keep your door closed no matter what.”

He nodded again, this time with unseen tears on his cheeks. “I love you, Makaila.”

She melted into the darkness.

Falling back on his bed, Larry yelled a prayer to God in his head.

Makaila punched the numbers on the telephone in the upstairs hall. After three rings, a sleepy voice said: “Hello?”

One strong hand grabbed her by the arm, another ripped the receiver from her, slamming the handset back onto the cradle. In the darkness, a voice hammered from above: “Where have you been all night!” A palm raked across her face, sending her to the floor.

“I gotta talk to Dr. Zogg!”

Ralph bent to find her face in the darkness, the hall light sprang to life. Catherine screamed. Ralph stepped back. “Good God Almighty!” He swallowed hard. “What have you done?”

Makaila erupted in tears. “I gotta talk to Dr. Zogg!”

Ralph dragged her to her feet, threw her in the hall closet and propped a chair against the knob. He banged the buttons on the phone. “Yeah, it’s an emergency. What’d you think? There’s been a murder.”

 

Larry did as told. He stayed in his room, the door shut. With clenched teeth and tearful eyes, he ripped the seam of his large teddy bear, worked his sister’s purse inside and carefully redid the stitching. He worked slowly to keep his hands busy. He wanted to rush into the hallway. He wanted to protect his sister. He knew the best thing he could do, maybe the only thing he could do, was exactly what Makaila told him to do.

 

Makaila’s first response was to throw her body against the door, which lasted about two minutes. She gulped back the panic and the tears, sitting in the dark, gathering her thoughts. She waited. She realized the risk in coming home, she also knew she had to give Larry the purse.

“She’s upstairs in the closet,” Ralph told the police officer at the door. “Just take her out of here.” He turned, walking back toward the kitchen.

The police officer flipped his note pad open. “Could you please give me some details?”

Ralph didn’t turn. “See for yourself. Be careful. She’s dangerous.”

Catherine returned to her bedroom, closing the door.

With guns drawn, they opened the door finding Makaila balled up on the floor with wet eyes, a red face and her clothes stained red. The officers looked at each other, holstering their guns. The younger of the two dropped to a knee. “Hello. My name’s Mike. What’s yours?”

She looked from one to the other. “Makaila.”

“Can you tell me what happened here, Makaila?”

“She came home that way,” Ralph said from behind them. “Just take her away.”

Mike looked to his partner. With a shared nod, his partner led Ralph away. “Let me ask you some questions for background.”

Mike turned back to the child. “Did someone hurt you, Makaila?”

She shook her head.

“Can you tell me what happened?”

Again, she shook her head.

“Can you tell me why you can’t tell me?”

“I need to talk to Dr. Zogg.” Her voice was controlled, soft.

“Okay. If you tell me where this happened, then you can talk to Dr. Zogg.” He smiled. “How’s that sound?”

She nodded.

 

From the rear seat, Makaila directed Mike over about three miles of streets. She pointed to a tenement building. “Up there – 306.”

“I’ll go,” Mike told his partner, leaving the car quickly returning with a white face and tears in his eyes. He tore Makaila from the backseat, slammed her against the car and handcuffed her brutally, returning her to the backseat.

“My God. My God,” he cried into the open microphone. “We need help here. We need a supervisor. My God. My God.” Sirens came to life in the distance.

“Can I talk to Dr. Zogg now?” Makaila asked with a whimper.

Mike put his gun in her face. “You can shut up now!”

“Mike!” His partner glared.

Mike holstered his weapon. “You don’t know, my God, you just don’t know.”

Makaila left for the Dream.

 

16

A steady parade of curiosity seekers came to the gallery room. Polaroid pictures passed through hands, bringing forth a variety of reactions from gasps to wide-eyed amazement. Most gawked through the window at the child in a bloodstained blue denim dress, her eyes in a vacant stare, rocking back and forth at the old table. She remained handcuffed.

“Damn.” Someone held a picture up for better light. “Is his heart cut out?”

“Never found it.”

“Bet she ate it. Look at her eyes.”

They did.

“Someone should shoot her now and do society a favor.”

“I’d hate to see her cookbook.” Many laughed grimly.

People left and more entered, the comments much the same. A crime this gruesome was unique. People wanted to get as close as they could.

“I was talking to the ME.” The statement was offered up to no one in particular. “He said the guy was tortured for hours before he died.”

“No kidding?”

“Well, that was just the preliminary. You can ask him yourself if you don’t believe me.”

The pictures found their way to Catherine’s hands. She wanted to vomit, swallowing back the impulse and the fact the child was the product of her womb. She choked and took a deep breath, handing the pictures to the person next to her. He looked on her pale face, then down at her visitor’s badge.

“Hey, lady. You ain’t press are you? There’s a press blackout.”

Catherine fought against the dizziness. She shook her head. “My daughter.”

The room emptied quickly, leaving Catherine alone with her thoughts, the pictures and her daughter on the other side of the glass. Ralph had gone to work.

“It’s out of my hands,” Ralph told her. “Whatever it is, they can send me the bill as long as I never see her again.”

Makaila was her daughter and as the mother, there she was, looking at the horror.

With a deep breath, Catherine said aloud: “In this moment, I declare you are not my daughter.”

“Who’s Dr. Zogg?” The voice appeared from nowhere. A smartly dressed older man had entered the room unnoticed. “She keeps asking for Dr. Zogg.”

“Her therapist.”

“If we’re going to find out what happened, we’re going to have to get him down here.”

“No! This is his doing! I know it!”

“You think he put her up to this?”

“I mean, he didn’t deal with her aggressively enough. It’s his failing.”

The other nodded. “I see.” He scratched his chin and produced a clipboard. “Let’s take care of the legal stuff here. Do you wave her right to counsel?”

“Of course. She did what she did. She doesn’t need to put us through the cost of a lawyer.”

“Can I have your permission to represent myself as an associate of Dr. Zogg’s to your daughter?”

She nodded

He made a note on the form and initialed it. “Sign here.” He presented the clipboard.

She signed.

 

Moments later, Catherine watched the well-dressed man enter the other room.

“Hello, Makaila.” He smiled. “Dr. Zogg sends his regards and regrets that he couldn’t come. He was in a minor auto accident and is in the hospital. He’s fine, but had to send me. I’ve been his associate for years now. I’m Dr. Howard. You can trust me.”

She lit up. “Hi, Dr. Howard. It’s nice to meet you.”

The man nodded to his right, the signal to start the video camera. “I’m going to show you some pictures of Mr. Alvin Percy of 309 Harrison Street and ask you a very simple question. Okay.”

“Sure.”

He placed the pictures one by one on the table. “Did you do this?”

“Yes. I need to talk to you all about it.”

“That’s all I need.” He nodded to the camera, ending the recording.

She looked hard, reading his muscles and subtle body. “Dr. Zogg didn’t send you.” She wasn’t sure. He could mask his subtle body as well as Dr. Zogg.

He gathered the pictures and left the room.

Catherine dropped to the floor crying.

 

17

Alvin Percy, born in the fall of 1962 to middle-class parents, had an undistinguished childhood and school history. He excelled in college, finding his love in education. Before the ink was dry on his certificate, he landed a job teaching eighth-grade English. He was in his eleventh year at the time of his death.

Neighbors, faculty, friends, the church and students alike had only good to say about him. With his parent’s death in an auto accident in his last year of college, he had no family to attend his funeral. More than three hundred people turned out. He was well liked, even loved by many.

“This man was a saint,” Pastor Stevens, the pastor of his church said into the news camera. “He was active in the church, the school and community. This is a terrible loss to us all and a glaring example of the ills of society that can breed a monster who can do such a terrible thing.”

The news camera switched to a group of five girls in their early teens, all crying. “He was like a second father to me,” one of the girls blubbered full-face in the camera. “He changed my life.”

Like sound bites and images packed the four-minute spot, finishing with a two-second flash of one of the Polaroids that slipped from the gallery room. “A tragic end to a wonderful life,” the voiceover said. “You will be missed, Alvin Percy.”

For two weeks, the spots ran everyday on the morning and evening news. Details were sketchy, but that didn’t stop the journalists from making up details from vague inference, always careful with the wording. Commentary was presented as news, implying ritualistic cannibalism, witchcraft and dark occult practices by a group, not an individual.

Only one person knew the details, and she wasn’t talking. After two weeks, the media frenzy waned and the story forgotten other than by a few. The system wasn’t sure what to do with Makaila. They had forensics and Makaila’s confession, such as it was. Without her cooperation, conviction was a nasty business and much too public business.

Just over two weeks after the event, a knock came on the Carleton’s door. The well-dressed man, without introducing himself, invited himself in, sitting Ralph and Catherine at the dining room table. “We need to be done with this.”

Ralph huffed. “I’ve been done with it.”

The visitor lowered his eyebrows. “Do you want her back here with you?”

“No!” Ralph’s fist hit the table.

“Then, you’re not done with this, are you?”

Ralph took a deep breath. “What do we need to do?”

“We confine her in this special institute, it’s private, for evaluation and observation.”

Ralph leaned on the table. “For how long?”

The stranger sat back, grim smile. “That’s the beauty of this.” He looked from Ralph to Catherine. “It’s forever. She’ll be in the hands of the state for the rest of her life.” He narrowed his eyes. “Unless you move to get her released and at that, you’d be better to move Earth to Heaven.”

“Where do we sign?”

 

Makaila was moved from the interrogation room to a small cell, where she was ignored. Human contact came twice a day: someone brought food, waited while she ate and left with the tray. They didn’t talk to her, she didn’t try to talk to them.

Hours stretched into days. The farther time moved her away from humanity, the more she retreated within herself. The metal of the bars, brick of the walls and single-focused will of her captors was a phalanx she couldn’t breach. With no solution to her dilemma, she simply waited.

Sometime around 2:00 A.M. on the morning of December 3, 1997, two men, not of the police, removed Makaila from her cell in restraints and took her away in an ambulance. She was stripped of her clothes, washed in a cold shower as if she were a car and finally strapped to a bed in a small pale-green room. To the outside world, she became a note on a financial ledger in a far-off office somewhere.

 

Josephine McCarthy glanced over the articles in the newspaper. She placed her marker on the map and drew a hard black line, as the crow flies, from the school to where the book was found and finally to the crime scene. She read over the pirated copies of the official reports. The reports had holes, and she knew it. She made telephone calls. She could tell the difference between company line and candid disclosure of information.

The official reports made sense and locked the whole crime up tighter than a vacuum seal, as long as certain questions weren’t asked. “How did she get from here?” Josephine placed a finger on the map. “To here?” She moved her finger. The book found on the street by the brother threw everything into question.

She wanted events to fit her profile, but the facts she gleaned kept dropping it out. Josephine pulled the background reports, local, state and federal, on Alvin Percy. He didn’t fudge his taxes or have a parking ticket. She made a search at work looking for shadows in the record, indicating a sealed or purged juvenile record, not finding any. “I’ll bet he didn’t even jaywalk.”

With her red marker, Josephine circled the location of Alvin Percy’s apartment and the location of her list of missing girls. Squinting at the pattern, nothing jumped out. With a sigh, she deleted Makaila’s stats from the permanent file. Makaila simply didn’t fit.

Josephine wanted to interview the child. As things were, God Himself couldn’t get access. She made a note in her follow-up notebook to get back to her after some time after things quieted down. “Everyone needs a hobby.” She ran a finger over the picture of Sharon Watson.

This was more than a hobby.

 

Sharon Watson would be twenty-one years old. Josephine tried to imagine what Sharon would look like and what she might be doing. Sharon was her template for the profile. Sharon was ten years old the day she disappeared, on November 4. She did well in school, didn’t have any conflicts with teachers or other students worth mentioning. Both parents were accounted for and she had close ties to the family. Sharon Watson had about as trouble-free life as a ten-year-old could be expected to have. No factors in Sharon’s life could be the cause of her disappearance.

Josephine knew an external factor was at work and in her youth of eleven years before, knew solving this case and the return of Sharon Watson would be a boost for her career and proof of her worth. She knew she could make a better world.

As a child, Josephine saw the police as serving society and making the world a better place. The police were ever-present and always pleasant on the streets. They were always there, tall and strong, to answer simple questions, help with a sticky gear shift on the bicycle or keep her mother safe while waiting for help with a flat tire. At seven years old, Josephine knew this was what she wanted to be when she grew up.

“We’re here to help and we will help,” she told Sharon Watson’s mother. Josephine was twenty-one years old and yet to realize everything couldn’t be fixed as easily as a sticky gearshift. Her duty and responsibility in the case ended when she turned her report over to missing persons, officially, that is. She took the failure to recover the child as a personal failure and great disappointment.

“Some children go missing and are never found,” she was told by her supervisor. “It’s not a pretty fact of life but a fact of life just the same.”

“I will not accept this,” she told the picture of Sharon Watson while sipping slowly on her bourbon. She lost herself in the reams of data one more time.

 

18

Larry became a pariah and a lightning rod for cruel jokes at school. The other children, with few exceptions, were never kind to Larry because of his abnormal sister. Now, with rumor and innuendo, he became an outcast. Losing his sister was almost more than he could take.

Being Makaila’s brother had not been easy.

His peers saw him as that crazy girl’s brother. Larry couldn’t separate himself from this sibling relationship and establish his own identity. In the deep recesses of his mind, in the quietness and solitude of the night, he’d wish she’d just go away. Now, she went away and the guilt weighed so heavily on him, he thought he’d die.

He sought solace first with his friends who quickly showed him the backs of their heads. He sought commune and connection with his parents, something missing for a long time. He hadn’t liked the way they dealt with the abnormalities of his sister. He wanted to sit with them and share his loss and grief. He found no solace at home.

Deep within the darkness of his pain, his grief, his loss and his confusion, he withdrew from the world, shaved his head and spent his time pondering suicide.

Two days before Makaila was moved to the private institution, a teacher’s aide walking behind Larry in the hallway asked a colleague: “Do you think it’s okay to eat a salad with your fingers or the fingers should be eaten separately?”

The teacher’s aide spent a day in the hospital. Larry was expelled for a week. The principal told Larry: “Under the circumstances, no further action will be taken. Be warned: anything like this again and we’ll file criminal charges and you’ll find yourself with your sister.”

Larry took a deep breath and counted slowly to ten, very close to doing something like that again.

The tale of Larry’s anarchy blew through the school like a wind from the north. He found a new group of people gravitating toward him and was taken up into the clique. One day, without him knowing it, he became a member of a fringe group known only as the Freaks. No one really knew what they were, though rumor held they were witches, satanists or occultists. The administration’s line held they were juvenile delinquents.

Within the group, Makaila’s name was never mentioned. She was often referred to and affectionately called her or she. She was perceived as more than a human being. She was someone like God. Larry found his comfort, solace, peace and a reason to live within the group. They quickly came to greet each other with a raised hand, palm away, thumb pressed in the palm with fingers spread in an up-side-down M. With glaring eyes, they would say: “May she be with you.”

 

Sometime after 9:00 A.M. on December 3, 1997, the well-dressed man entered Ralph’s office. Ralph jumped to his feet. “Hey! I have a client here.”

The stranger nodded to the client, turned to Ralph and simply stated: “It is done.” He turned, leaving.

Ralph fell back in his chair, stunned. He looked at his client and laughed. He felt liberation. “It’s done!”

“What’s done?”

Ralph snapped back to the matters-at-hand, waving off the question. He picked up his telephone and told his secretary to cancel his appointments for the rest of the day. He finished with his current client and left.

The first stop was at the mall where he bought a large arrangement of cut flowers. He then made his way to the  women’s apparel department Lightning House and Home where he presented the flowers Catherine and promptly dragged her out of work. “Family emergency.” He waved to Catherine’s co-workers.

He refused to answer any questions. He led his wife through the house and retrieved the two six-packs from the refrigerator. He led his wife to the backyard, took one of the bottles and smashed it in the brick grill. Ralph handed Catherine a bottle. “It’s done.”

With mixed feelings of loss and joy, they smashed the remaining bottles, retreated to the bedroom and made love like they hadn’t made love for years. The chains were released. They could start living again.

 

Makaila sat on the floor in the cramped cell and let the distant sounds of voices and footstep, keys and metal, fade away. She didn’t understand any of it. She stood next to the canoe and looked up into the clear blue sky. She wondered when she would see the sky in reality again.

Climbing the hill, she smiled to Cat. “I really, really screwed up this time.”

“Want to talk about it?”

 Makaila drank in the cool forest air. “Maybe later. I think I’m going to have lots of time to do just that.” She looked at the soft face of her friend. “What’s death like?”

Cat giggled. “I really wouldn’t know. I haven’t died for real so I couldn’t tell you.”

She drew deep of the air again. “How long you been here?”

“Don’t really know. I haven’t kept track.” She closed her eyes. “Time doesn’t matter much without clocks and calendars.”

“I guess not.” She looked at the sun dancing through the pine trees. “Does it ever rain here? Every time I come, it’s always so nice – cool, clear and crisp.”

“It’s raining now.”

“Don’t confuse me. I got enough problems.”

“It’s not me that confuses you.”

Makaila held her hand out beyond the overhang. “It’s not raining.”

“Not to you. In reality it is.” She waved her hand like swatting flies. “That’s really not important. How’d you screw up?”

Makaila dropped her feet from the rail and sunk within herself. “I did a really, really bad thing.”

“If you don’t mind, and even if you do, I’m not going to take your word for it.”

“Oh, it was a bad thing!”

“So you say.”

“No – it was!”

“So you say.”

Makaila turned on her friend and sneered. “Look. I’m in prison, in a brick room no bigger than a closet and there’s no door but like these bars!”

Cat put a palm to Makaila’s red face, pushing a tear with her thumb. “I am looking. That only means some people felt you did something bad. That doesn’t mean you actually did something bad.”

“Isn’t it the same thing?”

Cat pulled Makaila’s head into her chest and held her. “There is no good and there is no bad. There is no right and there is no wrong. There’s only choices. Your choice has cost you your freedom because others have decided what you did is bad.” She stroked Makaila’s hair. “What you need to do now is cry while I hold you, get over it and figure out what you have to do to gain your freedom again.”

Time in the dream was next to meaningless. Makaila found she did feel better maybe from the good cry, maybe from being held, maybe from being understood or maybe from all three. “I have to figure out what they want and do it.”

“That’s all we can do.”

 

19

Makaila took well to life on the farm. In the first weeks, she anticipated the weight and darkness of unseen forces sweeping over her like an angry ocean wave. They never came. Before her arrest, she lived like any moment something would fall out of the sky crushing her. Often, she just wanted to die and get it over with.

The voices, which often haunted her waking hours, were gone. The visions, which danced in another layer of reality, unseen by others, were gone. The landscape spread out before her vision just as it was, not augmented by non-reality.

Maybe the time in the institute was just what I needed.

She closed the Aberrant Behavior within Social Contexts textbook she found on Joseph’s shelf, dismissing the idea.

Joseph had an odd, large collection of books. “It’s been a hobby of mine since I was a boy.” When asked whether he read all the books, he answered: “Nope – not yet.”

Makaila often handed Joseph a list of books, cross-referenced from her reading.

“You need these for your collection.”

He answered with wide-eyes, ordering what he could.

“But, I really could use Internet access.”

After skimming over what little information the relatively small library had on aberrant behavior, Makaila decided the people operating the institute and not the patients were aberrant. The institute, she determined, should be called a warehouse. Nowhere did she find anything even suggesting isolation and deprivation could lead to a cure for anything. The writings suggested the opposite.

When Makaila settled in, Marcy took it upon herself to set up school hours, two hours each day Marcy would work with Makaila. Marcy was concerned Makaila’s education was derailed and wanted to get Makaila up to grade level.

Marcy began by handing Makaila a Weekly Reader, asking her to look through the magazine so they could talk about the stories the next day. Fifteen minutes later, Makaila handed the magazine back. “What do you want to know?”

Opening to the first article and asking a question, Marcy was surprised Makaila offered a diatribe about how the article could have been better written.

Makaila held up a large book, Isaiah Berlin’s The Proper Study of Mankind, and with a tilt of her head, asked: “Let’s talk about this one this week?”

Marcy wondered which the student, which the teacher.

 

Pops and Ma touch me a lot. Right or wrong, she would get a hug. She found each morning, coming out of sleep, she would rush to wash her face and brush her teeth, hurrying downstairs, greeted with smiles. These two people were glad to see her, always, as if she’d been away for years.

Not only that, like with Ruby, the people she encountered were friendly, happy to meet her and happy to see her again. She worked hard looking at the facial muscles and subtle body finding nothing to contradict the impression.

The psychology books, the few, suggested isolation and deprivation were antithesis to mental health. Putting the Aberrant Behavior within Social Contexts back on the shelf, she tried to remember the last time her mother hugged her. She tried to remember the last time her father’s subtle body betrayed he was glad to see her. She tried to remember anyone at school touching her affectionately.

Sitting back in the chair, she closed her eyes, let her mind work to find memories and came up blank. Dr. Zogg was always glad to see her, but then he was paid and she couldn’t read his subtle body.

The only difference between the institution and regular life was in the institution, the people didn’t pretend. They were honest. They called the patients slugs. She clenched her fists, forcing back the tears. “Dad never called me a slug, but that’s what he was thinking.”

She jumped from the chair and ran through the house, finding Marcy in the kitchen. Makaila slammed into her and held on as tight as she could, crying bitter tears. Marcy stroked Makaila’s hair, holding, rocking. “You go ahead and cry, dear. You just let it all out.” For the first time in her short life, Makaila truly felt glad to be alive.

Joseph, Marcy and Makaila laughed about nothing and everything over breakfast. “We’re throwing hay today over the Wilson’s,” Joseph told Makaila. “So make sure you get plenty of fuel in you.”

“I intend to get fat and love every pound of it.” Makaila worked on her second stack of hotcakes, loaded with butter and maple syrup. “Back where I came from, breakfast came from a box!” She laughed at the thought. “The only problem I see with this, is you don’t get any stupid stickers or toys.” She waved her fork at Joseph. “Hey. What’s throwing hay?”

“We tie it up and take it to the barn. How do you think it gets there?”

“Oh, duh. Like I guess you don’t get it at the store.”

Makaila laughed at herself.

 

Timmy Wilson was a beanpole of a boy, much too tall for his sixteen years, bright and smiley with a farm boy’s tanned face from a summer of fieldwork. He lit up when he saw Makaila. “So you’re the butcher from back East we’ve been hearing so much about.”

Makaila stared, confused his subtle body didn’t match his statement.

He took her hands, examined the backs, flipped them and carefully looked at her palms. “Ruby tells us these are special. They just look pampered to me.”

Oh! Butcher! “Pampered or not, I can cut a chicken.” She looked in all directions. “Any around here? I’ll show you!”

They laughed.

Keeping Makaila’s hands, he looked over his shoulder at Joseph. “I think I’m in love.” Turning back: “I’m Killer.”

“Killer?” She bounced on her toes, shaking his hands. “Your parents must have a really weird sense of humor.”

“It’s my nick. I’ll tell you the story sometime.”

“This is sometime!”

With a hand on each chest, Joseph separated the two. “Courting’s for the evening. We have hay to throw. Makaila, you can ride with me on the tractor.”

Timmy blushed, pushing dirt with his foot.

“I ain’t here to ride, Pops. I’m here to throw.”

Joseph leaned back, narrowing his eyes. “Sure thing, then. You throw with Timmy. That means throwing hay not rolling in it.”

This time Makaila blushed, pushing dirt with her shoe. Joseph’s joke surprised her. Her father would never joke about sex, even indirectly. Makaila couldn’t count the number of times she had sexual intercourse, never willingly, in the institution. Sex, and the desire for sex, particularly in men, remained a mystery to her. Her quest to understand the mystery was a factor in her imprisonment.

Timmy looked her up and down.

Reading his subtle body, Makaila knew this was not a sexual look.

“You don’t look up to throwing chicken feed, let alone hay!”

She laughed. “We’ll see, won’t we?”

 

In the first fifteen minutes on the wagon with the baler dropping hay, the strain of unfamiliar muscle use weighed heavily on Makaila. She shifted her attention to a place ignoring the discomfort and pushed through the pain. With sweat running down her face, she smiled, laughed and kept up with Timmy bale for bale.

The field rolled off into the distance. “And, just why is it you’re called Killer?”

He lifted a bale over his head, tossing the hay into place. “Well, Butcher, it’s like this: there was this wolf come down from somewhere. You don’t see ‘em often if at all around here. This was a mean one – rabid. Nuts, man.” He paused to watch Makaila toss a bale. “It got in our barn in the middle of the night. I went in, closed the door behind me and went after the sucker.”

He heaved another bale on top of the stack, Makaila scurried up to set the hay in place.

“The darn gun jammed.”

She jumped down. “No way!”

“It did. Just like I’m telling you.” The next bale dropped between them and stayed there. “Wolves don’t take to being cornered when they’re sane, this one was nuts.” He pushed the bale back as the next one fell. “If it was sane, I’d be dead for sure.”

“I bet! If you lose that sanity, you lose your edge.”

He nodded, cocking the eyebrow. The third bale dropped. They caught up stacking.

“So, what’d you do?”

“I called on the Lord’s name and not in a way He’d like to hear it.”

She laughed, grabbed his upper arm and shook it. “Come on! Finish the story!”

Another bale dropped between them. “I thought I was dead. But, I wasn’t about to let this thing go on terrorizing everyone and maybe killing someone.” He caught the next bale and held the hay in front of him. “I grabbed the nearest thing I could get my hand around, a bucket, and ran at the sucker swinging away for all I was worth. The second good swing caught it in the side of the head, stunned it and I just pounded away until it wasn’t moving.” They stacked the bales. “So they call me Killer.”

“Very cool, Killer.”

He looked off into the distant trees. “I tell you. Killing’s killing and we do it all the time. There’s something a lot different from shooting and killing with your hands.”

“I bet it’s different when it’s it or you, too.”

“When I was in the barn, Butcher, I wasn’t even thinking about me. I got this little sister, you know. And, other people around, you know. Mom and Dad, neighbors. It was just a matter of time before this wolf got to killing people.”

Makaila put her mind around it. “Yeah, I can imagine.”

They threw hay while the wagon wobbled over the hill.

 

Timmy helped Joseph disconnect the baler and Joseph drove off to get another wagon. The two children lay in the field, the tops of their heads touching, watching the billowy white clouds against the blue sky. “You’re pretty cool for a city girl.”

“I’m glad you think so.” Her words took her by surprise. Under the sky, lying on that ground, Makaila tripped over an epiphany. She cared whether Timmy liked her. She got lost in her head trying to remember the last time she cared whether someone, anyone, liked her or not. Life was spent trying to stay out of everyone’s way.

“Do you shoot?”

“Like craps?”

“City girl.” He snickered. “Guns.”

She laughed at herself and felt good, not needing to be defensive. “No.”

“I’ll teach you if you want.”

Makaila couldn’t see his face. She couldn’t read his subtle body to tell whether he had motives beyond a gunnery lesson. She found she didn’t care. “Okay.”

“That is if it’s okay with Mr. Carleton.”

Makaila hadn’t thought to ask permission. She reached her hand over her head and wiggled her fingers. “Can we be like official buds?”

He reached up and took her hand. “Must be one of them there city things. We’re automatically buds the second we meet unless we decide otherwise.” He shook her hand. “We’re now officially buds.”

Makaila resisted with all her being the impulse to cry again.

 

20

Night pressed the sun from the sky by the time the baling was put up in the barn. The number of people working, more than twenty, surprised Makaila. On the way to the house, where dinner was laid out on long tables, she told Timmy: “You have a big family.”

“I would say city girls again, but I won’t. This isn’t my family. Just like you, they’re neighbors.”

Just like me, neighbors! “Oh.”

Marcy appeared with a glass for each child.

“Hi, Mrs. Carleton. We must of done good today!” Timmy held the glass high in the air.

Accepting the glass, Makaila latched onto Marcy for the second time in as many days. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

“It’s good homemade wine, but it’s not that good.”

“No, Ma! Thank you for like everything!”

Joseph caught up and put himself between Makaila and Timmy with an arm around both, moving up the hill toward the house. “Know I ain’t going to be marrying her off until I’m done with her.”

Timmy laughed. “I can understand that. But, in the meantime, sir, I’d like to teach, I mean, Butcher would like to learn. I mean. Oh heck. Can I teach her how to shoot?”

“Butcher, uh?” He took his arm back from Makaila, removed his hat by the brim, ran his hand over his head and replaced the cap. “Long as you teach her right and teach her safe.”

“You know me, sir.”

“Yes, I do.”

Marcy snickered. “Something else I’ll leave out of the letter to Aunt Harriet.” She didn’t make mention of the chickens, either.

 

The first shooting lesson didn’t involve the firing of a gun. Timmy showed Makaila how to breakdown, clean and oil the weapons. “Don’t ever think of these as toys. These are tools, even when you’re just shooting at a target. I’m not a gun-nut or anything. On the farm, a gun’s as essential as a hoe or a tractor.”

“’Cause you never know when you have to kill a rabid wolf?”

“Something like that.” He handed her his Browning HP35. “This is for target shooting or close-in wolves.”

Her hands dropped from the two-pound package. “Wow! This is a lot heavier than it looks.”

“You’ll want both hands on it when you fire.” Timmy explained how to site and how to determine her dominate eye, which was her right eye.

“I’ll watch you shoot and if you know what you’re doing, I’ll pick it up no problem.” She smiled.

He painstakingly explained everything he knew anyway. With a naturally awry perception of self, Makaila didn’t have any trouble feeling the weapon an extension of her hand.

She did watch Timmy shoot, the pistol, the rifle and the shotgun and she did pick it up quickly. Timmy was good and a natural, having been shooting since he could hold a gun. Makaila watched him pull off seven rounds with the Luger, only five hitting the center of the target.

“Want to hit all seven?”

He shook his head, experiencing the redundant failure. “It would sure be nice to win the shoot out this year at the fair.”

“Relax.”

“Relax?”

“Yeppers.” She took the pistol, dropped the clip out and snapped another in place. Handing the gun back, she instructed: “Inhale, let it out, fire. Repeat as needed.”

“That simple?”

“That simple. When you get to the last two shots, you stop breathing.”

Seven shots hit the center. “Darn, coach! Maybe you can help me with my layup?”

She reloaded. “Again. Just to prove to yourself it wasn’t a fluke.”

“A fish?” He laughed, shooting again with the same results. “Darn!”

 

Timmy had Internet access, or rather could. “Darned if I can find anything though. Dad thought it was a good idea for learning, but you know he don’t go near the thing.”

Looking over the computer, Makaila ran a finger across the keys, coming up with dust. “Like an airplane: if you don’t get in the cockpit, it ain’t going to fly.”

He looked to the floor. “I really couldn’t get past the blinking thing.”

“Helps to have a reason. What do you want to know about?”

“Wolves?”

She pushed a button. Minutes later, she twisted her face. “Where’s your OS disk?”

“My what?”

“What came with your computer, or that darn thing if you want to call it that.”

“The CD?”

“Yeah, that.”

“It didn’t play.”

“You didn’t throw it out, did you?”

He looked down at the floor. “I’ll look.”

Makaila’s fingers danced on the keys looking for a resident backup, but couldn’t find one. Timmy returned with the disk.

“Cool, Killer bud. We’ll have this box singing in no time.” In minutes, she said deeply: “It’s alive! It’s alive!” She looked up at Timmy. “Go get your dad.” She arranged the screen’s desktop for speed.

Turning from the keyboard: “I got this thing ready to connect to the Internet. Are we allowed to do it, Mr. Wilson?” She tilted her head just a bit. “We’ll need a major credit card to open an account.”

“We’ll have to see, won’t we?” He sat down.

“As seen on TV.” Eight minutes later. “Internet access.” She gave Mr. Wilson a quick tour, finding weather, local news and even a farm report.

“Fine.” He stood, wandering off.

Makaila could tell he was fascinated.

Makaila and Timmy spent the next two hours reading about wolves. She set up the email and sent a simple message. I am more than fine, signing an M.

“Boyfriend?”

“No, my brother. I have no friends, boys or otherwise.”

“Get out! No friends at all?”

“None.”

“I find that hard to believe. Why?”

“Everyone thinks I’m a rabid wolf.” A blinking icon caught her eye. She opened a window and read: I’m crying...where are you? L.

Timmy leaned close. “Your brother doesn’t know where you are?”

Tears welled in her eyes. She typed: I’m crying too. If you don’t know...I’d better not say right now. But know I’m okay. M. “I guess not.” She wiped her face on her sleeve. “It’s a longer story than yours.”

Timmy stood, placing his hands on her shoulders. “I couldn’t imagine not knowing where my sister was.” He sniffed twice.

She opened the next window and read: We need you...I need you...I want to die...I want to kill. They don’t care...only we care...we need you. L.

Timmy’s mouth hung open. Makaila tried to get her mind around the message. “Could you be a little more cryptic?” She couldn’t imagine who the we and who the they were, feeling her safe world slipping away.

She typed: Crash your system and clear the hard drive. Go to the library and open an account and email me again. We’ll talk when no one else can listen. Nothing is more important than staying alive and staying free. Do it. M.

She held back tears, shaking uncontrollably. Timmy did his best to wrap himself around her. With three deep breaths, she typed test and waited briefly for the cannot be delivered notice to come back. “Good boy, Larry.”

She put a hand to Timmy’s face. “I can’t tell you what I don’t know, Killer. So don’t ask.”

He nodded.

“I need to get home. Back to Pops’ anyway.”

 

“Life sucks!” Makaila slammed the front door.

Marcy appeared from the kitchen.

“Give me something breakable you don’t care about!”

With wide-eyes, Marcy handed her a lamp from the table. “What’s wrong, dear?”

She slammed the lamp to the floor sending glass in all directions. She put her fists to the ceiling, screaming. Marcy handed her the other lamp, which followed the first. Makaila took three deep breaths and sat on the floor. “Did you know my brother doesn’t know where I am?”

Marcy knelt. “We don’t know what anyone knows, dear. We know you were in a horrid place and now you’re here.” Marcy wiped tears away with her hand. “We know we love you and our life is richer for you being here.”

“Life doesn’t suck. Back there sucks.”

“When Pops gets back, we’ll all talk and see what we can come up with. How’s that sound?”

Makaila nodded and stood, squaring her shoulders. “It sounds good. In the meantime, I’m going to do something I’ve been putting off since I got here.”

“Calling that doctor?”

“Calling that doctor.” She rolled her eyes. “Right after I clean my mess up.”

 

Next