Preda's Voice (Guardians of Vaka Book 1) (3 page)

As they drove off that day, Mr. Scott winked at Preda with a knowing smile, and she stared at his kind face for as long as she could until they rounded the corner. Once they were well on the road, Preda peeked under a flap on top of the box and saw the blue carrier inside. Through the slats in the carrier, she could see Fiver sound asleep. Miraculously he stayed that way for the entire twelve-hour trip without making a sound.

Since then Fiver had remained in Preda’s life and had always maintained an uncanny ability to stay out of sight whenever her father was around. Preda had never known animals could be that smart but chalked it up to survival instincts. Surely Philip Torrance would have killed the cat had he known about his presence in her life.

She had written to Mr. Scott afterward, but Preda’s letter was returned to her almost immediately with a note to say the recipient had moved with no forwarding address.

Standing up in her room alone now, bloodstains from that morning surrounded her. Preda silently lamented her loss of the friend she had had in Mr. Scott. “He will never know how he saved my life through you,” she said to the cat.

Preda scooped up the purring cat and placed him onto her shoulder. Fiver perched there with one paw latched on her hood while she sifted through her pile of clothes at the bottom of her closet.

She was not a messy person by nature, but this had been the only way she could keep her cat supplies hidden from her father. It wasn’t long before the pastel blue plastic corner was revealed, and she pulled the carrier out. Fiver obediently jumped down and waltzed into it as though it was his idea, and he immediately curled up inside. Preda stuffed the carrier into a cardboard box—they never got rid of those—and looked around one last time.

She shuddered at the thought that she had killed a man there that morning. Preda pushed down a fresh wave of nausea as she wondered if the bodies of her father and his killer were still in the shed in the backyard where she had frantically dragged them that morning before getting on a bus to go to school. They couldn’t be if Detective Fox knew what had happened. They must be gone and being autopsied as part of some investigation.

There was nothing else for her here.

4

P
reda again contemplated running as she was walking out of the front door with Fiver. Her hand lingered on the door handle, and she glanced at Detective Fox’s face. He was standing nonchalantly, leaning against the outside of his car with his hands in his pockets and watching her every move. There was no escape. She sighed and walked slowly toward her fate.

Detective Fox glanced at the box in her hands and opened the car door to the backseat to indicate she should place it there, but Preda wordlessly shook her head and held on tightly to her heavy burden. She could have sworn his lip curved up ever so slightly into the semblance of an amused smile, but it was gone as quickly as it had come. He shook his head and quietly opened the front door for her and her charge.

Preda sat anxiously and held the box with Fiver inside. She prayed the cat would be just as silent as he had been on past car trips. She didn’t know if he knew he was in her lap, but he had been there for every other car ride with her father, and she hoped he would feel safe.

For his part Detective Fox looked straight ahead as though he was alone in the car, and he left Preda to her silence. She had a million questions swirling through her head, but every time she opened her mouth to start asking them, the words caught in her throat. After a lifetime of silence, the urge to speak was unfamiliar.

Preda resigned herself to waiting to see what her fate would be. She shifted her legs under Fiver’s weight and questioned the wisdom of her decision to take him. Every time her thoughts returned to leaving him behind, though, she felt in her gut that taking him was the right thing to do. Someone would have to take him from her if they were to separate. She was sure someone would. At least this way, though, she had a chance of knowing where he would end up. It certainly couldn’t be with her—in an institution or prison. Preda swallowed back tears at this thought but refused to succumb to panic.

Detective Fox was all business as he merged onto Interstate 95 northbound. Preda knew this road well from trying to navigate a route for the move down to Miami for her father. She tried to re-create the map in her head as they sped along. From what she could remember, this highway traveled north through the entire state. She burned to ask where they were going, but knew she couldn’t. She instead occupied herself by memorizing the exit numbers and landmarks as they passed them.

Hours went by, and it was dark outside before the detective abruptly pulled them off the highway. Within minutes of the exit, he pulled onto a side street too quickly for Preda to make out the name on the sign. There were no streetlights, and they were in a residential area. This was particularly concerning for Preda. She had envisioned their destination as some government-owned building complete with barbed wire. She slowly sat up straighter and gripped Fiver’s box with one hand. Her other hand was on the door handle in an effort to prepare herself to bolt if necessary. Oddly enough the detective hadn’t even locked the door. Detective Fox seemed to sense her alarm and cleared his throat. “No need to worry. We’re staying with a friend.”

A friend?
Preda thought frantically. She had no friends. Alarm bells were ringing in her head, and thoughts of her father’s warnings about her future repeated themselves like a mantra.
Destined for an institution,
she thought again and again. This couldn’t be right. She frantically considered the events of the afternoon.

What kind of detective didn’t even inspect the box a criminal was holding? Had he ever read her any rights? Didn’t he legally have to tell her where she was going? Preda had been so mired in her own guilt and fear, she had forgotten to consider the motives of this man who had taken her from school and claimed to already know so much about her life.

With an unusual moment of clarity, Preda swallowed back the fear of her own voice and spoke for the first time to her escort. “You’re not a detective.”

Detective Fox stopped the car and looked over at her with a bemused expression. “No. I’m not,” he said.

Preda gasped and whispered, “My voice doesn’t affect you.”

“It does, Preda. Just not in the way you think it should.”

With that cryptic statement, he slowly looked ahead, and the car started moving down the street again. Preda felt a mixture of excitement and a tinge of fear. Her hands were shaking as she nervously ran her fingers through her hair. For her entire life, she had been afraid of the consequences of her voice. She could count on two hands the number of times she had spoken to someone else intentionally, and it had never ended well.

Preda’s father had told her from a very young age that she was the reason her mother was absent from their lives. He had made it very clear to Preda that her incessant crying and yelling had driven his wife to madness. His words were chiseled into her memory banks as though written in stone.

Preda had been six years old, playing on the floor of the hallway outside her bedroom with a tattered stuffed teddy bear. Her father had strolled into the hall from the kitchen and planted his giant boots next to her small hands splayed out on the floor. Preda looked up at him then and started to say she was hungry. He had picked up one foot and slowly lowered it onto her left hand.

As she started to cry, he put more weight on it. The pain was excruciating, and she couldn’t help the scream bursting from her throat. He leaned down so his face was eye level with her, and he pointed to the plugs in his ears. He had told her then that every time she cried or asked for something, he would do this. To emphasize his words, he twisted the heel of his boot until she was completely silent. Preda had to squeeze her eyes shut and hold her breath until he took the weight off her hand. As soon as she was free, she quickly scooped up her stuffed animal with her right hand and scurried away from him into the corner of her room. She silently hiccupped and watched his retreating back. Preda did not misunderstand the intent behind his words and had spoken to him only a handful of times since.

She closed her eyes against the memory and thought about the significance of what Detective Fox had said.
No. Not a detective. Just Mr. Fox.
She soon realized they were pulling into a driveway. The drive led to a very plain, faded yellow ranch-style house. Preda could see the outline of a flower garden growing wild in the front yard.

5

M
r. Fox turned the Crown Victoria’s engine off, and the sudden absence of light was alarming. Preda didn’t think about what she was doing. She just yanked on the door handle and flew out of the car with Fiver pressed against her chest. She ran straight for the garden and crouched through the tall flower beds. She found a large oak tree on the other side of the yard and quickly pressed her back against it. She faced away from the car and the house.

Preda could hear her heartbeat pounding in her ears as she willed herself to stillness. Fiver started to shift his weight in the carrier so that it suddenly tipped to one side and then the other as she held it.

“Shh, Fiver,” she whispered.

The cat meowed loudly in response. Preda cringed against the noise in the night, and for the first time, she wished she could control the damn cat a little with her voice.

Preda could hear Mr. Fox close the driver’s side door, and then she heard his footsteps move slowly up to the house in a measured pace. He knocked once—one sharp rap in the night. Preda listened as the front door opened, and whispering ensued.
Why isn’t he chasing me?

She wished she could hear better and ventured to peek around the corner of the tree. Preda could just make out the shape of a hunched man silhouetted against the light coming from the house’s foyer. The man seemed to look right in her direction around Mr. Fox’s shoulder, and he brusquely moved past him and started to walk toward her.

Preda darted back around the tree and quickly weighed her options. Just as she was about to bolt down the street and into a neighbor’s yard, he came around the tree from the opposite side from where she saw him heading. He stopped just in front of her escape route, and Preda silently cursed herself for her lack of decisive action. Why hadn’t she kept running in the first place? Was it curiosity or just stupidity?

“Preda, please don’t run.” He spoke in a soothing tone as if she was a frightened animal.

Preda gave out an involuntary gasp.
That voice! It was so familiar.

“Let me have Fiver. I’ll take him inside,” he said.

Realization and disbelief dawned on Preda as his words hit her. He stepped out into the light, and she sank to her knees in relief as she saw his kind, gentle face. It was Mr. Scott.

Involuntary tears streamed down Preda’s face, and she could feel herself shaking as she finally put her feline burden down on the ground. The weight of what had happened in the last twelve hours crashed down on her. Just as she thought it was too much to bear, she felt him kneel down and wrap his arms around her. Preda buried her face against his chest and could hear the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. Preda knew this man was the father she should have had.

As Preda’s breathing steadied, she pulled away. He stood and extended a hand to help her up. She could see nothing but love and sympathy in his kind eyes, which were surrounded by wrinkles from years of smiling too much. His hair looked a touch grayer, but he was otherwise the same.

Why does this man care so much about me?
Preda thought with bewilderment. He didn’t even know her very well. She still felt an outer coating of distrust—especially since she wasn’t sure why Mr. Fox had brought her here to see him, of all people.

Preda stood without taking his hand and dusted off her knees. As she turned to pick up Fiver, she saw Mr. Scott was already carrying the box and walking toward the house. Apparently he trusted her to follow. She walked behind him through the yard to the front porch in a daze.

As they reached the front steps, Mr. Fox held the door open for her. “I’m sorry you felt as though you had to run, Preda,” he said in a hushed tone. “I will explain everything to you. I promise.”

Preda aggressively wiped the tears from her face and reflexively nodded in assent. She was not used to being able to speak. Finally she cleared her throat. “That would be nice.”

He had no reaction, and she shook her head in wonder and walked past him into the house.

It was cool inside, and Preda immediately started shivering as the sweat that had formed during her pathetic escape attempt began to cool. She rubbed her arms together and walked into the living room to the left of the front hallway. There was nothing unusual about the house. The furniture was old but clean. The rug had stains, but she could tell it had been recently vacuumed. The whole room smelled inviting, and Preda belatedly realized it was the cinnamon-scented candle lit on the coffee table.

She was standing in the middle of the room and holding her arms with her hands completely concealed in the sleeves of her sweatshirt. Preda saw a black blur race by her and onto the couch. Fiver seemed completely unfazed by the day. He paced back and forth on the couch before stopping on top of a throw pillow and slowly kneading the stuffing with his front paws. The cat looked up at her and squinted slightly in expectation. Without thinking Preda immediately went over to the couch and sat down next to him. Fiver jumped in her lap and curled up into a tight ball. He dutifully purred as she rubbed his half-missing ear.

Mr. Fox and Mr. Scott were quietly conversing in the hallway. Mr. Scott’s back was to her, and Mr. Fox’s towering form was easily able to stare at Preda over the shorter man’s head. She couldn’t interpret his expression, but his eyes never wavered as he scrutinized her with her cat.
Had he known there was a cat in that box the entire time?
Their eyes met. The two men stopped talking and came over into the living room.

Mr. Fox sat in the chair across from the couch and leaned back nonchalantly. He never broke eye contact with Preda.

Mr. Scott, on the other hand, quickly started bustling about the room. “Oh my. You must be freezing! I’ll turn the air conditioner down. Would you like a blanket? Are you hungry? Has he fed you? Likely not,” Mr. Scott answered his own question. “I’ll get you some food from the kitchen. You still like vegetables? I have some tomatoes from my garden.”

Preda nodded slowly, and her mouth started watering at the thought of food. She realized then she hadn’t had a single thing to eat all day. She hadn’t taken her eyes off Mr. Fox, however. As Mr. Scott bustled off into the kitchen, Mr. Fox maintained a perfectly relaxed and contented expression.

Preda was the one to break the silence between them. With uncharacteristic verboseness she said, “I’m ready to talk.”