Good Morning, Killer - April Smith [27]
“Coming your way,” warned surveillance.
“To the front door!”
“Can’t see shit in this fog—”
“Get out of the car,” she ordered, “right now!”
And they were, in a heartbeat, because out of the heavy mist drifted a hollow, dirt-stained face with feral matted filthy hair—a crippled figure Eunice first made as a homeless alcoholic or some demented member of the kidnap outfit—until she came underneath the exterior lamp, and Eunice saw the T-shirt was hanging open like a vest, for it had been slit down the middle, and the torso had been wound with bloody gauze.
“Oh sweet Jesus,” Eunice breathed and opened the door and drew the girl inside. “Don’t be afraid, Juliana. I’m Eunice Shaw with the FBI. We’ve been looking for you, baby. Your parents are waiting for you, right upstairs.”
Juliana swayed, listless, lightweight, as if about to float off her feet. She was pale and shocky. For a moment Eunice froze with hands on her shoulders, holding her upright, and made eye contact over her lolling head with one of the stupefied young male agents who had skidded through the doorway and Eunice’s black eyes were pleading and accusatory and infuriated and without being told he radioed 911 while the other agent went scuffling up the stairs to stammer to the parents that their little girl was home.
Eight.
The parents were like strangers, sitting on opposite sides of the hospital corridor. The minute you saw them your heart sank.
Their anxious bickering had at least been a connection. Now, at this unimaginable moment, when they needed the comfort of rabbis and saints, these two could not even bring themselves to touch each other’s hand.
He, wearing a shiny purple jacket that said Laurel West Academy, as if it were Juliana’s swim team practice instead of a rape exam at one in the morning, hauled himself up from the seat. In the harsh light I noticed how the jaw drifted slightly to one side, as if years ago someone had taken a good and accurate slug at him.
“You all did a great job.”
“I’m glad we could be of help.”
She, back in control of her public self, had dressed in businesslike khakis with a blue sweater and spotless white tennis shoes, but looked, if it were possible, as if she had lost another ten pounds in the last twelve hours. Wordlessly, she put her arms around me, and I could feel the fragile shoulder bones.
“It isn’t over,” Ross warned. “You’ve got to get the guy.”
“Believe me, Mr. Murphy, that’s the plan.”
“Who,” said his wife, eyes communicating her private torment, “do you think it was?”
“I couldn’t speculate right now.”
“But you’ll keep us informed?”
“You’ll be informed.”
“I just want to say—,” but Ross couldn’t say it. He ducked his head and swiped at his eyes. “If I acted badly, I didn’t mean to cause any trouble … I was just trying to get my daughter back.”
I nodded, eyes stung with empathy. “It was a difficult time for everyone.”
“If there’s anything we can do for you,” he began stalwartly, “on a personal level—”
“No, no, no—” I may have blushed. “Please.”
“I understand.” He put up a meaty hand as if he were a kingpin in the Russian mafia. The fluorescent lights glinted off his gold spectacles. “Just know it’s there.”
What is? I wanted to say. The automatic doors blew open and Andrew came through on the hustle.
Ross greeted him with some kind of white suburban power handshake and a dozen claps on the shoulder of his leather jacket.
“She’s back, huh? She made it! She’s a survivor, that kid! I feel like I should be handing out cigars!”
But there was a contradictory sadness behind Ross’s bravura. We all knew, standing there, the life of this family had been kicked off track and lay twisted and skewed like a toy train, smashed by the heel of someone who resented its ordered path around in a circle; the perfect miniature town inside.
“Ana, they want you.”
Ross: “What’s going on?”
“Procedure,” Andrew explained. “They like having law enforcement in on the initial interview so the victim doesn’t have to go through the story twice. I do it all the time with rape victims,