Garage Sale Stalker (Garage Sale Mysteries) (14 page)

CHAPTER 28

R
uger’s childhood
memory of
his deranged father’s return to their farm house and the ensuing rampage when he watched Mathis beaten to death was real enough, but there was more…

Cowering inside the house with his mother, Ruger heard light rain begin to patter drops on the Yates’ farm house roof; drops also fell upon the child’s crumpled body outdoors in the open makeshift grave. The warm rain caressed Mathis’ still face until his eyelashes fluttered feebly. Eventually, his eyes flickered open. Maimed and dazed, the beaten child struggled to move his limbs, recoiled from the dizzying pain and lay still. But the soft rain woke him again. With slow, deliberate effort he managed to lift onto his elbows. Staring in bewilderment around the bottom of the dark, damp pit in which he found himself, he wondered at the layer of dirt covering him. Pushing very slowly to a sitting position and reeling with pain, he repeatedly tried to drag himself to his knees. Eventually succeeding, he struggled mightily to stand, clinging to the top of the hole for support. After numerous failed attempts to claw his way out of his intended shallow grave, he sprawled at last atop the rim and lay motionless, overcome by fatigue and throbbing aches.

Barely conscious, Mathis had no vision beyond an instinctive urge to distance himself from this place of misery, despite danger from the dreaded strangers. Out of the hole and lying on the ground, he waited for the strength to move again. When it came, at first he crawled and then staggered awkwardly out across the field toward the unknown.

Stopping often and clinging to trees for support, he finally reached and crossed a street before stumbling upon an impromptu roadside dump. After someone unloaded a first derelict appliance, others capitalized upon the convenient opportunity by throwing old washing machines and construction trash down the incline. Discarded wooden kitchen cabinets from a remodeling project comprised the dump’s latest clutter. Exhaustion, pain and intensifying rain drove the child to seek shelter. He crawled inside a gutted pantry which lay on its side, wedged securely against a tree, and closed the door as best he could.

Safe inside the dry haven, the exhausted boy instinctively curled his frail, damaged body into a fetal position as the growing storm roared overhead. Oblivious to all but the dreadful hurt everywhere in his body, the child ignored the rain’s incessant drumming upon his makeshift shelter and slid mercifully into a deep, anesthetizing sleep. As the storm crisscrossed the countryside, bolts of jagged lightning stabbed the ground nearby, accompanied by explosive thunder booming over the roadside dump, but Mathis slept like death.

Waking the following day and conscious of pain in every part of his body, he opened the pantry’s door and squinted against sunlight glinting upon wet woodland leaves and tufts of grass. He didn’t know the violent storm had gully-washed enough dirt into the grave where his father threw him to fill it half full of muddy ooze. He didn’t know that this morning his mother shoveled the rest of the rim-mounted dirt into the hole and placed a handmade cross on top. He didn’t know they all thought he lay forever at the bottom of that grave.

He did know he was hungry and his body hurt everywhere as he crabbed his way with wrenching effort along the unfamiliar terrain. He vividly recalled his mother’s warnings that strangers wanted to kill and eat him, but never having left the farm, he had no idea where they lived or how to avoid them. He staggered across another road and stumbled through adjacent woods and farmland, stopping often to muster enough strength to lurch forward another few steps.

During his desperate flight, he traversed an incredible three miles before he saw a farm house from the edge of the woods and smelled tantalizing food aromas wafting toward him on the summer breeze. Underfed even before his newest ordeal began, overwhelmed by exhaustion and grimacing with every painful movement, Mathis could continue no longer. He crumpled to his knees on the forest floor, toppled onto his side and fell into a semi-conscious stupor.

***

Sally rocked on the veranda of her farm house with her dog stretched out languidly at her feet. Two freshly baked pies cooled near the kitchen window and with farm chores to do this afternoon, she reflected that keeping very busy helped some, but not enough. She sighed sadly, hoping the pies, her husband Craig’s favorites, might cheer his somber mood a bit at dinner.

Wistful as she was many times each day, she thought of her adored six- year-old boy, Matthew, taken from her only two months earlier by spinal meningitis. Craig grieved at least as hard as she for the son they both loved so much. She felt as if her heart had been ripped open, leaving a raw wound that could never heal. Life, once so full of anticipation when they focused on the boy, consisted now of going through motions because their real purpose existed no more.

A trained nurse before she married, she blamed herself incessantly for failing to identify her son’s symptoms sooner. High fever, headache and vomiting were common forerunners of many lesser illnesses. By the time he mentioned a stiff neck, the seizures began. Rushed to the hospital, he rallied briefly, but antibiotics came too late to halt the disease’s insidious progress.

He’d have started first grade in a couple of months. She’d already registered him, bought his school clothes and supplies, all of them up in his room, the room with no child.

As a nurse, she’d witnessed grief cripple otherwise strong people, but until losing her own precious child, she hadn’t understood how deep anguish could stab. She ached for her missing son all day, and her short nights of troubled sleep continued the hopeless vigil. She cringed, knowing Matthew’s diffcult birth left her unable to have another child. Her dream of a family was over.

She wiped away unbidden tears with her sleeve cuff and tried to thread a needle for the mending project in her lap when her dog suddenly jumped to his feet and looked toward the woods.

“What is it, Lucky? What’s the matter, boy?”

The dog whimpered, moving restlessly across the porch and staring through its railing at something in the distance. Returning to his mistress, he rested his muzzle in her lap and she patted his head, but this didn’t soothe him. He bounded down the porch steps toward the woods, barking an alert. Putting her sewing aside, Sally eased out of the rocker to follow when she noticed Matthew’s abandoned baseball bat propped at one end of the porch where he’d left it the day he fell ill. Picking it up, she realized his small hands touched the bat last and caressed the grip with her fingers, feeling an invisible connection with the son she mourned. Sighing again, she picked up the bat and carried it along—just in case!

Following her dog across the yard, she stepped past the outer edge of the mowed lawn and waded into the thick woodland ferns, brushing brambles aside and dodging branches until at last the animal stopped ahead and barked. Catching up, she stared at the ground beneath a bush.

“What’s this? Why, it looks like a little tyke and… oh no, he’s hurt!” She dropped the bat and eased the unconscious boy onto his back, aghast at his wounds and bruises. “Oh my god, he’s hurt
real
bad.”

After her nimble fingers ruled out neck or back injuries requiring immobilization, she gently lifted Mathis’ limp body into her arms. “Good boy, Lucky,” she praised the dog, who followed her, tail wagging, as she carried the boy back to her house.

When Mathis awoke, despite the soft bed and tantalizing smell of food on a tray next to him, he shrank in fear at the sight of a stranger
right beside him.
Although the stranger hadn’t yet made a move to grab or bite him, his eyes desperately scanned the room for quick escape.

The stranger smiled and said gently, “Hello there. What happened to you? Why were you out in the woods?”

The boy stared at her, terrified.

“Would you like something to eat?” She handed him a cookie. “Are you hungry?”

The boy eyed the cookie and, although his bruised jaw and split lips ached, he felt drugged by the treat ’s irresistible smell. He inhaled the aroma deeply and nibbled tentatively at the cookie’s edge before wolfing the treat down so fast he choked.

“Here, drink this warm cocoa,” the stranger offered and while he gulped the unimaginably delicious drink, she asked in a whisper, “So what happened to you? How did you get all these bruises and cuts?”

Anxious, his eyes followed her finger as she pointed to cuts and black-and-blue marks.

“Who did this to you?” she asked in a soft voice. The boy looked away, but she tried again. “Was it someone you know?”

Maybe if he answered the stranger’s questions he wouldn’t be eaten. He didn’t know what else to do. With effort, his eyes turned to hers and he nodded slightly.

“Was it a grown-up?” she asked softly. He nodded “yes” again.

“Was it your father?” He hesitated and nodded once more.

“Was he the only one who hurt you?” The boy shook his head.

“Your mother hurt you also?” she asked. Tears welled in the boy’s eyes and spilled in rivulets down his filthy, gaunt cheeks as he nodded.

“What happened here?” She pointed to the missing finger on his small, dirty hand. The boy gasped back a sob and made a chopping motion with his other hand.

“Someone did that to you? Someone chopped off your finger?” He nodded, and looked hungrily at the cookies. She handed him another, which he devoured greedily. “Did your father cut off your finger?” The boy shook his head. “Did your mother do it?” The boy nodded.

Sally’s mind raced. Social Services would put a child like this into their system, where he might bounce from one institution to another or through a string of foster homes. She knew they worked hard at their daunting job, even when underfunded and poorly staffed, but their cases outnumbered them. Once he was removed from his abusive parents, an institution-governed future lay ahead to compound this boy’s already tragic start in life. Seeming an unthinkable mistake, a child could even be returned to his abusive parents. The newspaper reported this happening recently, resulting in that child’s subsequent death.

After his life-long indoctrination to fear dreaded strangers, Mathis expected blows to begin at any moment and steeled himself for the punch or bite surely coming next. And yet, no one had ever talked so kindly with him or given him such sweet-tasting food or the amazing warm drink. Were strangers different from what he’d been told?

“What’s your name?” she asked, wondering if he could speak since so far he communicated with head movements. She held her breath, awaiting his response.

In a weak voice through his cut lips, the child murmured, “Mathis.” But what Sally heard was “Matthew.”

“Matthew?
Matthew!
Have you come back to us, just as a different little boy?” An expression of radiant happiness lit her face, such as Mathis had never before witnessed on anyone he knew. So contagious was her joy that the child didn’t flinch when she touched his cheek with affection.

Beaming gratefully, her heart full of love, Sally whispered, “I’m going to be your new mommy.”

CHAPTER 29

S
leeping fitfully
on the
hard wooden bench inside the small dark room, Jennifer dreamed she ran for her life through dense woods while behind her panted a large black dog, the chain collar and tags around its neck jingling as it pounded after her.

No matter how she swerved, the animal crashed close behind her through the fallen leaves as she dodged tree trunks and fallen branches. She prayed her legs could miraculously keep up with her body as she sped forward headlong. Abruptly, she tripped and smashed down into a leaf-filled crevice, while the chasing animal overshot her. She lay paralyzed with fear and partially covered by dry leaves. Silence! Had she lost him? Then, the jingling tags and heavy breathing returned as the animal doubled back through the leaves, searching for her. As she saw his hairy muzzle appear above the trench and felt his hot, smelly breath on her face, a scream caught in her throat as she stared in helpless horror at the dog’s huge spreading jaws and glinting teeth...

Then a sharp click, at which her eyes popped wide open!

Though her dream evaporated at the sudden sound, the panic it created did not. Ripped from her nightmare, she sat upright but disoriented. Was this still the dream or did the room’s door move?

As the door opening widened, in the eerie glow of artificial light outside the box, a figure faced her. Wrestler sat on a backward turned chair just outside her room, appraising her coldly.

The grisly nightmare from which she just wakened paled compared to the real one beginning now.

Fear clutched her heart.

This was it, the dreaded moment! She had no knowledge of what he planned next and no tools, real or psychological, to protect herself. Only ominous dread... If she could just think of something startling to do or say, something disarming, something to jolt his predictable pattern—a pattern of which, she knew, Tina was already a casualty. And now... she was next!

Their stares locked because she dared not look away. Perhaps he used no words, just silence and then a quick, chilling lunge toward her.

“The light.” In an even voice, he spoke this as a statement, not a question.

She heard herself say, “Yes, I found the light and I’d like to apply for a job.” Where did
that
come from?

He leaned forward, watching her face intently. “A
job?”

Her mind raced! A tumbled recollection of her schooling, training, experience, credentials, jobs and talents cascaded through her mind. What might be useful to him?

“As a servant,” at these words she tried not to look as surprised as she felt. What possessed her to mention this hateful task? Would this idiocy seal her fate at the very moment she needed to defend it?

Was it the poor light or wishful thinking or had a nearly imperceptible flicker of interest crossed his face? If so, how could she capitalize quickly on whatever might have triggered this response?

Who was this man? What did he need? Someone weak? Someone strong? Her very survival depended on what she said next.

He shifted confidently in his chair and smirked, keenly aware of her total vulnerability and his complete control. She knew from the garage sale months ago, when they vied for the painting, how single-mindedly he focused and that his muscle could press home any point he chose. The missing McLean women! Tina’s earring! Everything pointed to this man! She swallowed hard and held the stare of the specter who sat before her.

“Servant?” he repeated. Was that curiosity or amusement in his eyes?

It was now or never. She felt a sudden burst of energy overtake her. “Look,” she found herself saying, “you have many routine chores every day. Because you are very capable, you can do them yourself, but they are dreary, routine, repetitive, time-consuming tasks. Doing them takes time away from... ” she groped, uncertain of the pivotal words, “…your important work.”

Neither his smirk nor his stare changed appreciably, yet she felt he studied her differently now.

“I have practical skills backed by experience,” she went on, “like cleaning, cooking, sewing, ironing and gardening. I work hard and take directions well.” She searched his face, hoping for some detectable reaction from him, but he neither moved nor spoke.

Had she already gone too far or was this the moment to lay all her cards on the table? She drew a deep breath and plunged ahead.

“If you have an office, I can use a computer, type, file, pay bills, do payroll and double entry bookkeeping.” She waited for any response. His smirk was gone, replaced by that cold-fish expression.

At least this conversation temporarily delayed his attack. “Look, I’m here and my future is whatever it is. You have nothing to lose and everything to gain by using my skills in the interim. For you it’s win-win!”

For the first time, he moved, turning his head to look toward the left at something she couldn’t see. Was he about to grab a weapon to impale her? Her skin prickled with anxiety.

Looking directly at her again, he wordlessly closed the door and her heart sank as the lock clicked shut.

In a roller coaster of emotions, she breathed deeply to calm herself, grateful to stay alive even minutes longer but fighting despair at her helpless situation. Sitting on the bench, she buried her face in her hands and cried in frustration.

Ten minutes later, another click and the door swung open, revealing Wrestler again astride the chair. He looked at her silently, as if making a decision, before reaching for something outside her field of vision. He pushed an open-topped cardboard box into her enclosure and again shut and secured the door.

Alone in her dim prison, she pushed the container over to the night light and bent forward.

Inside the box lay a rectangular paper sleeve of saltine crackers and a plastic bottle of water.