hair.
“How did it happen, Jennifer?”
“He killed her … then he killed himself. What did you do to them? What did you do to my parents?”
She felt the woman slide her hand under her T-shirt and gently caress the skin on her stomach from her navel to just beneath her breasts. Jennifer tried to move away, but the powerful hand tangled in her hair held her fast. “They weren’t your parents, dear. You know that. Don’t you?”
“They were,” Jennifer heard herself say. “They loved me just as much as if I was their real daughter.”
“That’s what you were supposed to think, Jennifer,”the woman said, shaking her head with something that looked like sadness. “It’s what I told them to make you believe.”
“You’re lying!”
The edges of the woman’s mouth curled up almost imperceptibly. “Then why didn’t your father use the gun I gave him to save you?”
Jennifer closed her eyes so tight she could see dull streaks of imaginary light streaking across the insides of her eyelids. “He would have … he wanted …” Her voice trailed off. Why hadn’t he? Why hadn’t he saved her?”
“He didn’t save you because you weren’t really his child. I gave you to them and told them to take care of you until it was time for you to come back to me. That’s all.”
The woman’s hand slid from underneath her shirt and into her hand. Jennifer heard her stand and felt a gentle pull. She allowed herself to be led into the bathroom.
“I’m the only one who loves you now, Jennifer. I’m the one who takes care of you,” the woman said, reaching into the small shower and turning on the water. She tested the temperature and then turned back to Jennifer, who was standing immobile on the cold tile floor. Jennifer didn’t resist as the woman pulled her T-shirt over her head and then dropped to her knees and slid her panties down her legs.
She stepped silently into the hot shower, trying to fight off the distorted image of her parents’ shattered bodies swirling around her in the thick steam. She closed her eyes again as she felt the woman begin to run a soapy washcloth along her wet skin,trying to let her mind retreat into the past. She surrounded herself with the memory of her last race, her friend spraying the mud off her with a hose, the look on her parents’ faces as she toweled her hair with the old grease rag.
“I want to go home,” she said so quietly that the sound was almost completely swallowed up by the running water.
The woman dropped the washrag into the bottom of the shower and ran a soapy hand slowly down Jennifer’s back. “You are home, dear.”
13
T HE STOVE WAS PRETTY MUCH COLD.
Beamon stuck his hands into the open grate and tried to warm them on the few remaining coals glowing dimly through a blanket of ash. The cans lining the walls around him had gone pale white with a thin layer of frost. The door had been wide open when they’d arrived.
Beamon dropped to his knees and looked under the bed. The shotgun and hatchet he’d put under it were gone.
“You got anything, Chet?” Beamon yelled, walking down the steps and back into the blinding light of a heatless sun.
Michaels threw open the door to the generator house, gun stretched out in front of him. He poked his head into it, lowered his gun, and turned back toward Beamon. “Nothing.”
“Now, where the hell did he get off to?” Beamon said.
Michaels walked slowly toward him, scanning the clearing. “Do you think he just headed into the hills? His truck’s still here.”
Beamon shook his head. It had been a bad call. He should have been watching. “I don’t know. Let’s see that fax again.”
Despite the clarity of the heat signature on the photograph, it was difficult to judge distances with any real precision. Beamon made his best guess as to the location of the possible underground chamber and he and Michaels began kicking through debris-scattered underbrush in a less than scientific pattern to find the
“How did it happen, Jennifer?”
“He killed her … then he killed himself. What did you do to them? What did you do to my parents?”
She felt the woman slide her hand under her T-shirt and gently caress the skin on her stomach from her navel to just beneath her breasts. Jennifer tried to move away, but the powerful hand tangled in her hair held her fast. “They weren’t your parents, dear. You know that. Don’t you?”
“They were,” Jennifer heard herself say. “They loved me just as much as if I was their real daughter.”
“That’s what you were supposed to think, Jennifer,”the woman said, shaking her head with something that looked like sadness. “It’s what I told them to make you believe.”
“You’re lying!”
The edges of the woman’s mouth curled up almost imperceptibly. “Then why didn’t your father use the gun I gave him to save you?”
Jennifer closed her eyes so tight she could see dull streaks of imaginary light streaking across the insides of her eyelids. “He would have … he wanted …” Her voice trailed off. Why hadn’t he? Why hadn’t he saved her?”
“He didn’t save you because you weren’t really his child. I gave you to them and told them to take care of you until it was time for you to come back to me. That’s all.”
The woman’s hand slid from underneath her shirt and into her hand. Jennifer heard her stand and felt a gentle pull. She allowed herself to be led into the bathroom.
“I’m the only one who loves you now, Jennifer. I’m the one who takes care of you,” the woman said, reaching into the small shower and turning on the water. She tested the temperature and then turned back to Jennifer, who was standing immobile on the cold tile floor. Jennifer didn’t resist as the woman pulled her T-shirt over her head and then dropped to her knees and slid her panties down her legs.
She stepped silently into the hot shower, trying to fight off the distorted image of her parents’ shattered bodies swirling around her in the thick steam. She closed her eyes again as she felt the woman begin to run a soapy washcloth along her wet skin,trying to let her mind retreat into the past. She surrounded herself with the memory of her last race, her friend spraying the mud off her with a hose, the look on her parents’ faces as she toweled her hair with the old grease rag.
“I want to go home,” she said so quietly that the sound was almost completely swallowed up by the running water.
The woman dropped the washrag into the bottom of the shower and ran a soapy hand slowly down Jennifer’s back. “You are home, dear.”
13
T HE STOVE WAS PRETTY MUCH COLD.
Beamon stuck his hands into the open grate and tried to warm them on the few remaining coals glowing dimly through a blanket of ash. The cans lining the walls around him had gone pale white with a thin layer of frost. The door had been wide open when they’d arrived.
Beamon dropped to his knees and looked under the bed. The shotgun and hatchet he’d put under it were gone.
“You got anything, Chet?” Beamon yelled, walking down the steps and back into the blinding light of a heatless sun.
Michaels threw open the door to the generator house, gun stretched out in front of him. He poked his head into it, lowered his gun, and turned back toward Beamon. “Nothing.”
“Now, where the hell did he get off to?” Beamon said.
Michaels walked slowly toward him, scanning the clearing. “Do you think he just headed into the hills? His truck’s still here.”
Beamon shook his head. It had been a bad call. He should have been watching. “I don’t know. Let’s see that fax again.”
Despite the clarity of the heat signature on the photograph, it was difficult to judge distances with any real precision. Beamon made his best guess as to the location of the possible underground chamber and he and Michaels began kicking through debris-scattered underbrush in a less than scientific pattern to find the
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