Blind Faith (3 page)

Dr. Hedeger says pretty much the same thing as the Colonel's wife, only he feeds me Xanax with his tepid platitudes. He frowns when he sees the lack of sleep in my eyes, my hair stiff and needing to be washed. Tells me to listen to the Colonel's wife, that letting my grief and anger out is the best way to "defuse my trauma".

Defuse. As if I'm a ticking bomb ready to explode at the slightest jar or rustle. Tick, tick...boom!

He's right about one thing. That's exactly how I feel. Relentless, a constant coil of incendiary fury curled inside me like a viper ready to strike. Surrounded by a hard lead dead numb casing.

If
ever I do blow, the explosion will have nowhere to go except to ricochet between my ribs, finishing the job of shredding my heart to pieces.

So, that's basically how I am. How's everything there? Are you keeping an eye on Josh? I know you are—hell, even Damian Wright knew that. I guess that's why he followed you into the woods. He knew he'd never get a better chance to catch you by surprise and get Josh.

Did I tell you the police found one of his camera cards? While I was sitting in Albany with a bunch of other teachers, being preached to about "no child left behind," that monster was spying on Josh. The card is filled with picture after picture of you and Josh at the park, you two walking home, even a glimpse of Josh and you wrestling on the living room floor. Oh there are other little boys he'd spied on, but they quickly give way to focus solely on Josh.

Our beautiful little boy. I'm not blaming you. The police said from the amount of blood they found on the trail that you put up quite a fight. Heroic, Chief Waverly called it.

They found some blood that must have belonged to Damian as well, it was A positive and you're B negative. As long as it wasn't Josh's blood, I was happy—what a stupid thing to think! But at the time I could only grasp at straws, was hanging onto any thread of hope I could find.

I'm so damned angry—that I wasn't here, as if I could have somehow stopped what happened—angry at the stupid government wasting time and money on a stupid law with a catchy name that has condemned our children to a level of mediocracy—sorry, you've heard that rant before, haven't you?

Mostly I'm angry at God—how could he have allowed this to happen? To those two boys in Vermont? To the other one they found in Tennessee after they lost Damian here.

Then the woman from the FBI—you would have laughed at her, butch hair cut, badly fitting skirt, clunky shoes, hand always on her hip as if she couldn't decide if she was a woman or one of the boys—she told me, in her blunt, you-told-me-not-to-sugar-coat-anything way that Damian' signature was to snatch and grab his prey. That he killed them quickly, brutally, with his bare hands (she said it makes him feel like God, using his hands, feeling his flesh against theirs while they die—how the hell can she know that?). Oh yeah, she says, as if this will ease my mind, don't worry, he doesn't actually molest them until after they're dead. Then he can take his time, take them with him, find someplace with peace and quiet.

That's when Hal Waverly came in and shut her up. Thank God 'cause I was ready to do some serious damage to her myself. Hal took me by the shoulders and steered me out to his squad, found me something hot to drink that stopped my teeth from chattering. Then he told me about the blood in the clearing off the trail. About finding Josh's Tigger, ripped to pieces. That they'd called off the search because of the hurricane arriving. That once the weather cleared, they'd get the cadaver dogs out there.

Last week. Seems like another life. The search and rescue and cadaver dogs from Saranac are all down in Mississippi and New Orleans now. The FBI has come and gone but the crime scene tape still blocks the room at the Locust Inn down in Merrill where Damian Wright stayed. They just missed him in Tennessee, the news said—hot on the trail of a killer.

If I was Damian, I'd head down to Texas, blend in with the refugees there, get lost in the crowd. I wonder if the police have thought of that, if they're looking for him there? Seems like he was headed south. The mom in Tennessee at least has a body to bury—a pair of hunters interrupted Damian before he could finish hiding that boy. Nelson was his name. Cute kid from the photo in the papers. Black curls, big dark eyes, wide grin.

Just like you and Josh. I know Josh must be with you—he has to be, that hope is the only thing keeping me sane. Knowing that you two are together.

I will find you. Soon. I promise. Maybe the rain will wash you free—if Damian didn't bury you too deep. But then the animals—I can't stop thinking about what they might be doing, teeth and claws. The pictures going through my mind are almost as bad as the thought of what Damian did to Josh after he finished with you....

Sorry, I'm back now. Sometimes I just have to go shut myself in the bathroom, all the faucets running as hard as they can go and I scream and scream until my voice has run out and the room is filled with steam and I imagine you're there in the mirror and Josh is sleeping just beyond the closed door. I hold my breath until the fog clears and it becomes all too obvious to anyone sane that I'm alone. Alone with my thoughts and fears and anger and despair—I miss you both so much that I can't even imagine words equal to the task.

Hal Waverly's been a rock. Course, as Chief of Police he's seen bad things before—and he's lost someone himself so he understands better than anyone. He keeps to himself, kind of hovers in the background, checks on me between calls, making sure there's food in the house, that I don't wear the same clothes three days running. Most of all, he doesn't judge me when I need to escape—usually out into the rain and fog that's trying to drown us out this past week.

Everyone else puckers their lips, wondering if I'm gone round the bend—or if that ticking time bomb has finally exploded. Not Hal.

I hate to admit it but even the Colonel's wife has been a help—in her own way. She shoos everyone away, cleans the house and sends me to bed after a hot bath and cup of her herbal tea that tastes like a grandmother's hug, all warmth and cinnamon. I keep kicking her out, but she sees me as her project—as if she's the only one who can redeem me. Hate to tell her it's a waste of time.

My brain feels fuzzy—the Colonel must have slipped more Xanax into my tea. Or maybe Prozac. Or both. He hovers over me like fog on the mountain. They're all watching me—the Colonel, his wife, Hal Waverly, Dr. Hedeger, everyone from school. It's as if the whole town is holding its breath, waiting for me to explode—tick, tick, boom.

They think I'll kill myself or at least hurt myself. But I could never do that—not until I find you.

Then, we'll see. I can't imagine past that.

For now, hold Josh tight, tell him not to be scared, tell him mommy loves him soooo much. Tell him I'll find you. I will find you both. Somehow, someway, someday.

I love you. God how I love you—why couldn't I have been here? Why couldn't it have been me?

I sleep with the curtains open so I can see the mountain above the fog. It makes me feel like you're watching over me from somewhere up there in the darkness. And if I leave the light on, maybe then you and Josh can find your way home.........

Wednesday, June 19, 2007: Hopewell, New York

Sarah stepped off her porch, the screen door banging behind her, startling a flock of starlings from their perch along the roof gutter. The sun was already high enough to be peaking over the rim of Snakehead Mountain's neighbor to the east. Bright ribbons of light shredded the fog that nightly crowded the mountainside. All that remained were small swirls of floating cotton-candy mist that vanished with her every movement.

She smiled and hummed as she skimmed along the grass, gathering dew around the sides of her hiking boots and along the hems of her jeans. "It ain't morning till the coffee's brewing, and it ain't coffee unless it's Ewing's," she sang one of Sam's attempts to break into the commercial jingle market.

It was still chilly enough that she wore a fleece jacket over her tank top, but the clear sky guaranteed mild weather. She reached the lane and followed it downhill to where it intersected with Lake Road, which ran down to the reservoir and the dam. Her house perched above the rest of town, nestled in a curve of the mountain's lower ridgeline. In the summer it was hidden among the shade of maples, oaks, and beech trees. In the winter it offered spectacular views across the valley from the front and a glimpse of the Lower Falls from the back porch. Not to mention the deer, fox, and occasional bear meandering past.

Searching for signs of scat or tracks, Sarah scanned the hard-packed dirt road. It was a habit drilled into her by the Colonel from when she was a child and learning to hunt. How many times had she and Josh stopped to gleefully poke apart mounds of seedy excrement while Sam stood by, a bemused smile crinkling his face?

She yanked her head up, forced her feet to continue their journey without her peering down at the road. Instead, she blinked into the sun filtering through freshly emerged leaves. Beyond her, a raven caught an updraft, sailing into the sky over the gorge.

There were only a few houses here on the outskirts of town. Hal Waverly was Sarah's closest neighbor, almost a mile away up a gravel track that curved around the eastern side of Snakehead, past the reservoir. Hal's house perched on the very edge of the gorge, with head-on views of the Lower Falls. Lily, his wife, had been the county hydrologist and loved living in a house constantly filled with the sound of rushing water.

Sarah passed the road leading to Hal's house, a chill overtaking her as tall hemlocks blocked out the sun. She kept heading toward town, reaching Main Street a half-mile farther down the mountain.

Main Street dead-ended at Lake Road. The Village of Hopewell had been painstakingly carved out of a plateau above a shallow section of the Snakehead River gorge. Originally it had been home to a Mohawk settlement, then French Canadian trappers, followed by loggers and a handful of hearty homesteaders. After the dam had been built by the CCC in the 30's, the town finally had room to breathe, expanding down into the basin the river left behind, growing from an unincorporated hamlet into a full-fledged village of almost five hundred souls. It still didn't show up on many maps, but the people of Hopewell took that as a badge of honor. Kept most the tourists out, unlike nearby Saranac or Lake Placid.

She turned onto Main Street, passing the Farmer's Market, two churches, and a scattering of houses, half of them vacant. Two blocks later she passed the school that housed grades K thru 8. After that, the kids were bused down the mountain to Merrill. The school board was currently discussing closing the school entirely. If they did, Sarah would have to decide to leave Hopewell or drive twenty-eight miles over treacherous, twisting roads to teach in Merrill.

She wasn't leaving. Not without finding Josh and Sam.

She paused beside Doc Hedeger's clinic. Down the street, the Colonel's wife, Victoria, raised the flag in front of the new government center, her skinny arms scissoring back and forth. Sarah waved but wasn't upset when the postmistress ignored her to stand at attention, one hand over her heart as she recited the pledge of allegiance.

Victoria's post office was the center of the latest controversy that had rocked Hopewell. Somehow Victoria had convinced the government that not only did Hopewell, NY, population 468, deserve its zip code re-instated but since the Snakehead dam was a prime terrorist target, it deserved funding for a new post office/police station.

The floods of 2005 had destroyed the old police station. The same floods that had destroyed potential evidence and stolen any hope of finding Josh and Sam.

Sarah yanked her head up, checked her posture, and continued on her path. There were plenty of other empty buildings that could have been bought by the village. Or Hopewell could have merged its police department with the county sheriff. But all of those options would have cost more money than the village had available. Victoria's creative grant writing abilities had solved the problem and allowed her to be elected Hopewell's first postmistress in fourteen years.

So, earlier this month, on Flag Day, the ugliest building this side of the Hudson River officially opened to the public. It boasted orange brick, vinyl windows, fluorescent lights and a post-office that took up a good 3/4 of the space. Hal Waverly and his three deputies were relegated to a small area in the rear of the building with a 8 x 10 cell for all the terrorists they caught and a 10 x 10 office area for themselves, complete with access to the public drinking fountain and rest rooms on the post office side of the building.

Would be terrorists beware!
had read the headline in the Hopewell Weekly. Sarah had remembered thinking that if Sam had been there, he'd have found rich fodder for one of his satirical songs. She and the Colonel had argued endlessly about the funds and how they could be better used to save the school or to hire more men for Hal's department or to maintain the treacherous dirt road leading up Snakehead, but the Colonel had staunchly supported his wife.

So far no one had used the police department's side of the building for anything other than the occasional meal break, although it was equipped with a computer and state of the art communications equipment. Since the summer tourist season had arrived, Hal and his officers were stretched far too thin to spend any time off patrol.

Sarah pulled open the Rockslide Café's door, releasing a buzz of conversation mingled with the fragrant scent of fresh brewed coffee and cinnamon buns. The Colonel was behind the counter, manning the morning rush as usual, slinging hash and flipping pancakes while never missing a beat in his conversation.

Sarah stood in the doorway for a moment. The fifties's era diner was all chrome and red vinyl, the decor consisting of photos deemed noteworthy by the Colonel. Including one of Sarah, mouthful of braces, graduating from high school and another of her, sans braces, accepting her college diploma. One day last year, without warning, The Colonel had added one of Sam and Josh in a place of honor. Josh held aloft a Northern Pike, the fish almost as tall as the three-year-old, while Sam had his arms wrapped around him, steadying him. Sam's smile was even wider than Josh's, his eyes gleaming with pride.