The Shape of Desire (39 page)

I shake my head. “Christina lives in Rolla. Surely she got a babysitter if she was going to be gone. If she knew she was going to be gone—”

“How old is Lizzie?”

I rip my hand free and run across the room, where I left my purse under an end table near the sliding glass door. Pawing through it for my address book, I say over my shoulder, “Three months, I think. Something like that.” Kneeling on the floor, I pull my cell phone from my pocket and punch in Christina’s number. “None of the attacks happened more than three months ago. Jesus. How can this
be
?”

Ellen snorts. “How can
any
of this be?”

Christina’s phone goes straight to voice mail. Still on the floor, I slew around to stare at Ellen. “No one’s answering,” I say. “Maybe she left the baby with a neighbor.”

Ellen looks straight back at me. “Or maybe she didn’t.”

In my heart, I know she didn’t. In my heart, I know that whatever primitive, feral imperative had Christina in its grip, it didn’t allow her time for rational thought. I have absolutely no doubt in my mind that Christina loved Lizzie. She loved her brothers, and she probably had a whole circle of friends that she genuinely cared about. But the affectionate, goofy, odd Christina I knew wasn’t the one who had shifted into a grotesque, imperfect animal shape and gone lumbering through the world wreaking mindless mayhem.

“I have to go to Rolla,” I say. “I have to see if Lizzie’s all right.”

Again, Ellen makes that snorting sound. She’s already on her feet. “
We
have to go to Rolla,” she says. “I’m not about to let you drive there on your own. You can’t even stand up.”

“But—”

“Just give me time to bank the fire and feed the cats, and we’re outta here,” she says.

W
hile Ellen locks up the house, I call Dante’s cell phone. He doesn’t answer, of course, and I cannot bring myself to tell him this devastating news in a message. So I just say, “It’s me. It’s really important that you call me as soon as you can. No matter when you get this message. I love you.”

Five minutes later, we’re on the road and heading for Highway 44. Ellen’s driving, but we’re in my car.
She’s
the one who said, “We can’t take the Miata. No room for a baby seat.”

I hadn’t been thinking that clearly or that far ahead. But of course I’ll be bringing Lizzie home with me. At least temporarily. At least until we can figure out what to do next.

That is, if we can find her. If Christina has left her with an acquaintance—what then? How do we locate her? It’s not like Dante or William can sit patiently at her house, waiting for someone to bring the baby home. Do Christina’s friends and neighbors even know she has brothers? Would they willingly turn over that small, sweet, fragile life to anyone who looks as unkempt and unsafe as Dante or William?

I close my eyes. There are too many questions.

Ellen has tuned my radio to KMOX, where all the talk is of the dramatic capture in the park. The word “capture” yanks my eyes open and has me staring at the dashboard, but the next few exchanges make it clear that the creature under discussion did not survive the hunt.
“Unfortunately, the perpetrator died at the scene,” one commentator says. Another one jumps in, “Unfortunately? This is an animal that is responsible for at least four deaths.” The first one responds, “Yes, but there’s great confusion about what exactly this creature was. Animal? Human? Ladies and gentlemen, if you haven’t watched the live footage of the pursuit, you will be astonished at what you see…”

“They’ll be talking about this for weeks,” Ellen says abruptly, her eyes fixed on the road. She is driving at least fifteen miles over the speed limit, and we are passing cars as if they are all being driven by octogenarians out for an afternoon of sightseeing. I didn’t know my Saturn could go this fast. “It’ll be in all the papers. ‘Half-Animal, Half-Human, All Killer.’ Stuff like that. Your Dante and his brother might be exposed after all.”

I rub my forehead. The second adrenaline rush has dissipated, and I’m getting a headache. But I can also feel my body marshaling its reserves, using this brief period of comparative calm to recharge, preparing for the next onslaught. This is a day when I will have to survive multiple assaults on my emotions; I will have to be ready for extended battles.

“Maybe,” I say. “But if they can’t identify Christina’s body, they won’t be able to trace her back to Dante and William. Or Lizzie.”

“What about that key?” she asks. “What’s it to?”

I shake my head. “I don’t know. I didn’t even know she wore one. She didn’t until recently.” I’m silent a moment before adding, “Until a couple months ago, only Dante wore a key like that around his neck.”

She gives me one quick, marveling look as she now comprehends some of the anguish I went through back at her house. “Jesus.”

“But if it’s, say, a key to her house.” I shrug. “How will they track that down? Unless she’s in the system for some other crime—which I don’t think she is—I don’t know that they’ll be able to identify her.”

“Okay, but her friends. The people at her office. Won’t they notice that she’s missing? Won’t they start to put it together? And if any of
them saw the footage today—or reads a newspaper or checks the Internet
ever
—”

“There’s a chance someone will recognize her,” I admit. “But—I don’t think I would have if I hadn’t been expecting to see William or Dante. And—seriously—would
you
think it was possible that someone you know could turn into a monster? I mean, this is like something out of a comic book. No one’s going to look at photos of her face and say, ‘Hey, she looks like Christina Romano.’ I just think they won’t credit it.”

“Okay, maybe, but she’s still missing,” Ellen points out. “So the timing is going to make them suspicious. And if you suddenly say, ‘Oh, how sad, Christina died,’ and you don’t produce a body—I just think people will start adding up the pieces.”

I nod. I’m trying to think it through. “She’s still on maternity leave, so we have a little time where her coworkers are concerned,” I say. “I know she has friends in St. Louis, but I don’t know how many. I don’t know how close they are to her, how often they keep in touch.” I ponder for a moment. “If someone can get me into her e-mail account, I can send all her friends a few messages, as if I’m her. Maybe I’ll say I’m going on a trip down to—Florida or somewhere. I’ll be gone for a few weeks. And then she’ll conveniently die in a car wreck on the way home, and I’ll have Dante or William send
that
message out to all her friends. That will change the timing between the deaths.”

I’m concentrating on concocting the scheme, so I’m staring out the window, but I feel Ellen give me another quick glance. “You sure have a fertile mind for lying,” she says.

I give a hollow laugh. “Years and years and
years
of practice.”

“So what about the baby?” Ellen asks. “Can her brothers realistically raise her, or will you need to turn her over to the state?”

“I’m keeping her,” I say.

I expect her to exclaim with disbelief or dissent.
Oh, no, girlfriend, do not even
think
you are keeping that baby.
But this is Ellen; she’s usually a
few steps ahead of me in anticipating emotional developments. “That’s the trauma talking,” she says quietly. “That’s the body revving up to do whatever it takes to survive an emergency. You haven’t thought it through.”

I turn toward her as much as my seat belt will allow. “But I
have
thought it through,” I say. “I told Dante just a couple of months ago that I wanted a baby, and if he didn’t want to contribute to the process, I’d find another way to get one. He wasn’t keen on the idea, but he didn’t shoot me down. And Lizzie—I’ve only spent a couple days with her but I just adore her. I can do this, Ellen, I know I can. I
want
to.” I take a deep breath. “I’m just not sure, legally, how to make it all work. I mean, what happens to an orphaned child?”

She risks a quick look at me then returns her attention to the road. “Orphaned,” she repeats. “Who’s her daddy?”

“Some old high school friend of Christina’s who lives in Alaska now and only comes home once every five years, or something like that,” I say. “She didn’t even tell him about the baby. I don’t think he’s a factor, but that still leaves a lot of questions. How can I get custody of an abandoned baby? Does the state have to get involved? Will Dante or William automatically become her guardian? I don’t know any of this.”

“I can help you through it,” she says. “I have friends who are social workers and lawyers. People who know the system. But I’ll have to be convinced it’s the right thing for her
and
for you.”

I manage a soft laugh. “Well, it’s the right thing for her, no question,” I say. “She’s a shape-shifter’s child, Ellen. Chances are good that one day pretty soon she’s going to turn into something else. A kitten. A rabbit. How do you think a foster parent would handle
that
little wrinkle?”

Ellen groans. “You’re right, but—hell. Well, that’s a little ways down the road. First we have to find her. Then we can think about keeping her.”

A momentary silence falls between us, filled by the ongoing sound of the radio. The special news report has ended; now we’re listening to
the comments by listeners calling in to offer their opinions on everything from the police department’s latest scandal to the newest baseball trade. Some, of course, still want to talk about the bizarre “wolf-woman” caught and killed on live television this afternoon. I don’t want to listen, but I can’t bring myself to change the station.

One caller instantly catches my attention. “I can’t believe how gullible all you people are!” he exclaims. “That was the fakest newscast I ever saw. That stupid reporter is just trying to land himself a job in a big city like New York. Or maybe Channel 5 is just trying to boost its ratings, ’cause we all know it’s the suckiest station in the city. I mean, were there
other
news helicopters out there taking pictures?
Noooooo.
Well, isn’t that convenient for Channel 5!”

I straighten in my seat and stare at the radio dial, which Ellen reaches out to tap with her right index finger. “There it is,” she says. “That’s what’s gonna save us. Redneck conspiracy theorists, who believe everyone is trying to trick them in one way or another.”

“But I think there were a lot of cops and park rangers and other people who were on the scene and actually saw her change,” I say.

“Yeah, maybe,” Ellen replies. “But some of them were too far away to get a good look at Christina’s face until she was dead, and others will say they thought they saw her throw something to the ground as she was running—a mask, maybe?—and all of them will feel like idiots swearing that they actually saw an animal turn into a human. I think the sheer suspicious nature of the average American will work to your advantage. People can’t believe this story is true, therefore someone’s lying to them. And no one investigates. And Lizzie and Dante and William are safe.”

“I hope so,” I say. “Let’s hear it for fear and ignorance.”

The bleak November sunset is layering icy white, tundra blue, and refrigerated pink on the western horizon as we exit the highway and begin winding through the countryside near Rolla. I had been sitting
slack in my seat for the final twenty minutes of the drive, but now I’m upright and tense again, filled with an edgy energy. Prepared for anything at Christina’s house. I hope.

Following my directions, Ellen pulls into Christina’s driveway and cuts the motor. I’ve already got my door open when she grabs my left wrist. In the gathering dark, I can barely see her face.

“You realize this might be very bad,” she says quietly. “If Christina was so lost to herself that she was killing total strangers—”

I wrench free. “She didn’t hurt Lizzie,” I say and jump out of the car without another word. But my heart is pounding; my brain is providing me with horrific images of nightmare slaughter. Thank God Ellen kept this speculation to herself until the moment of arrival. I don’t think I could have endured the ride with those pictures in my head.

The house key is exactly where Christina had said she kept it, under the stone rabbit in the raised garden, surrounded by stripped winter bushes. Ellen has already climbed the stairs to the wide, gracious porch and is pressing her face against one of the windows, trying to peer into the living room.

“I think I hear something inside,” she says.

I turn the lock and open the door. I hear it, too. A baby’s voice, lifted in a long despairing cry, ragged and thready as if it has been sobbing for days but has not quite lost its hope of succor.

“Lizzie,” I breathe. I
run
through the house for the baby’s room, hitting wall switches as I go; it is as if an illuminating fire springs to life in the wake of my passage. The overhead fixture blooms into light as I rush into the baby’s room, and I take it all in with one quick glance.

Everything is tidy—a blanket folded neatly over the back of the rocking chair, diapers and onesies laid out on top of the changing table, photo frames and cute little carved animals set out lovingly on the dresser—except for the crib itself. There, all is a tangle of wadded up bedsheets and regurgitated formula and streaks of liquid brown that I have
to assume has seeped from a Huggies diaper. Lizzie lies in the middle of the mess, hands balled up, feet kicking at the air, her face red from shrieking. One bootie has come off, it looks like she has scratched her face, and the odor of poop and urine is powerful, but she does not look injured or abused. Angry, afraid, hungry, miserable, yes, but whole. Healthy. Alive.

“Thank God,” I whisper, and burst into tears.

The tears don’t impede me as I hurry to the bedside and lift Lizzie out of her crib, leaky diaper and all. “Shh, shh, it will be all right,” I whisper as I cradle her against my chest. “I’m here, Aunt Maria is here. Everything will be okay.”

Ellen is only a step behind me; she assesses the situation with one comprehensive look. “Good,” is her pronouncement. “You want to bathe and change her or do you want to prepare a bottle? She’s probably starving as well as filthy.”