Picture Perfect (14 page)

“Good girl, now try the other pockets. He must have had a good-sized roll.” While Elva struggled with her revulsion and Lenny's stiff body, Cudge opened the wallet and pulled out two twenties and a single. “Find it, Elva. This can't be all he had. Lenny liked to go into a game well heeled.” Putting the bills into his own pockets, he dropped the wallet onto Lenny's chest.

“I think I got it, Cudge,” Elva told him, her spirits lifting because he had called her a good girl. “It's a wad, all right.”

“Hand it over.” Must be a couple of hundred dollars, he told himself, satisfied. Ol' Lenny was worth a lot more dead than alive. “Try those other pockets.”

“I already did and there was nothing. Cudge, I don't want to touch him anymore. And jeez, this blanket stinks. I think we used too many mothballs.”

“Search him, Elva, do like I tell you.” His hands closed over the shovel handle, eyes intent, watching. He wouldn't like hitting Elva and rolling her into Lenny's grave, but he had to do it. She was stupid, and stupid was dangerous.

Elva looked up to plead with him, to tell him that it made her sick to touch Lenny. She had to convince him that there was nothing else in the earth-damp pockets. Her mouth opened but no sound came out. Cudge was staring down at her, shovel held high over his head. Doom crowded her and she knew she would soon be lying next to Lenny. “Cudge! No, don't!”

A sharp yipping followed by an angry bark broke the stillness.

“What the hell?” Cudge shouted, leaping back from the open grave. The shovel flew from his hands and clattered to the ground. “I thought I told you to have a look around, Elva! Now you've blown it!” He grabbed her hand and yanked her out of the grave. “It was that kid's mutt. Where the hell did it go?”

“I don't know! I don't know!” she wailed.

“Get him! Find him! I'll fill in the hole!” Cudge's words were cut off by a streak of black fur charging from the bushes.

Davey was stunned. He stood transfixed by the sight of Duffy running toward the mean man and the crying girl. Growls and snarls burst from Duffy as she tried unsuccessfully to chew at the man's leg. Davey wanted to run to get his dog, but the girl was running toward him. For one instant he looked directly into her eyes.

“Run, kid! Run as fast as you can,” she ordered in a loud whisper. “If he gets his hands on you, he'll kill you and you'll end up like Lenny. Run, damn you! Run!” That's what she had said to BJ, but BJ couldn't run. BJ had just stared at her, willing her with his great saucer eyes to help him. But she hadn't. Couldn't. This kid wasn't moving either. Panicking, she reached for him, pushing, shoving. “Now, damn it! Run! Get away from here!”

Davey eyes went from the girl to the man. He had to get Duffy before the man did. Davey charged past the girl, calling Duffy's name. Quicker than mercury, the boy caught up with his dog, grabbed her and ran as fast as he could. Duffy was still growling, erupting into agitated barks as Davey climbed the ridge of the gully, heading for safety, for Aunt Lorrie.

Encumbered by his leg brace, Davey slowed. Duffy fell from his arms, tumbling into the leaves. Half dragging his leg behind him, Davey scooted beneath low overhanging branches, in and out of the brush, Duffy loping behind him. Behind him, he could hear something tearing through the woods, breaking branches, snapping twigs, pounding the soft earth.

Davey had to hide; he had to keep Duffy safe. The dog ran ahead of him, ears erect, tail held high. Davey followed her through the brush into the bright sunshine, toward a winding road. They had to hide.
He'll kill you,
the girl had said.

On and on Davey ran, shoelaces snapping.

The truck and pop-up sprang into Davey's line of vision. The camper was half-closed; the sides were folded in, but the door stood open.

Duffy picked up speed, heading away from the pop-up, toward Aunt Lorrie's RV. Davey was breathless, nearly exhausted. He knew the man was close and could probably see him now that he was out in the open. The decision was made. He ran up the aluminum step into the camper and slammed the door shut behind him. He had to hide where the man couldn't see him. Duffy was smart; she would find her way back to Aunt Lorrie.

Covering his mouth with his hand to quiet his ragged breathing, he crawled to the back of the camper, down between some empty boxes and the bunk. He waited, listening. There was no sound, no scratching from outside to tell him that Duffy was out there. Just silence.

A loud bellow ripped close to Davey, making him jump. “That goddamn kid got away and it's your fault, Elva. You dumb broad! Once that kid tells his folks what he's seen, it's curtains. The manager has our license number and knows who we are. That means jail, Elva. We'll be locked up for the rest of our lives.”

Davey held his breath, expecting the man to walk into the camper any minute. Instead, a rusty creaking sound filled the pop-up, making it vibrate. The scraping of metal against metal pierced Davey's ears, making his teeth hurt. Daring a glance upward, he saw the camper's roof lowering, coming down to squash him like a bug.

E
lva climbed into the truck, her face white with terror. She had every reason to be terrified of Cudge, but being left behind was somehow more frightening than what he might do to her. “You were going to kill me back there!” she hissed as she lifted herself onto the seat beside him.

His face was set in lines of panic and it gave her some small satisfaction to see him this way. Big, bad Cudge Balog, scared of what a little kid could do to him! “Don't try and lie to me, I seen it in your face.” She wanted to hear him say she was wrong, that she was crazy and imagined things. She needed to believe that she was safe with Cudge Balog.

He turned the ignition key, foot pressing on the gas pedal. The engine cranked and almost caught before winding down. Again, he pressed the gas, twisting the ignition key viciously as he pumped the pedal, willing the engine to turn over, dreading the thought that he might have flooded it. He was sweating. Elva looked at him, desperately wanting him to defend his actions back at Lenny's grave. “I ain't going with you!”

Before she could think twice she was out of the truck and running across the dusty road, heading for the cover of the trees. Bullet-swift, Cudge was out of the cab and racing after her.

Resolution died in Elva even before she felt his hands on her shoulders. “This is all your fault, Elva! You're not running out on me now. Get it through your head. Get in the truck and don't open your mouth unless I tell you. In a couple of hours we're gonna be wanted for murder because of that kid and his mutt. Murder, Elva! And it's all your fault.”

Cudge wasn't sure which way to go—north or south? Maybe he'd stand a better chance if he ditched the camper. No, he'd worked too hard to get it, and he wasn't going to part with it. Why did that mangy mutt have to show up? Of all the bad luck! And that kid—what had happened to him? If only he could have gotten his hands on him. “By now that kid is spilling his guts to his aunt. Hear me, Elva? That kid is blabbing and his aunt is going to the cops. We got another hour of freedom and then . . .
pow
!” His arm shot out toward Elva but she ducked and managed to miss it.

Elva huddled against the door, unable to move, fearing that if she did, Cudge would try to hit her again. If the cops got her, she would be locked up. If she made a move, Cudge would kill her. Why couldn't she win, just once? At least the kid had gotten away. If it hadn't been for her, he would be dead and his parents would be crying over his body, trying to figure out what had happened. She was a heroine of sorts. She had saved the kid and got the good-looking guy. Only Cudge wasn't a good-looking guy and she didn't want him. Still, the kid had got away, thanks to her, and she felt good about it. She wished she could bless herself and maybe go to confession. She could do it in her mind. Cudge wouldn't have to know she was praying and confessing. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost, amen. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been many years since my last confession, since . . . since BJ. Father help me, somebody help me, she cried inwardly.

There was no priest behind a screen in a small confessional. She was in a dirty pickup with a murderer. What good was pretending to go to confession? She needed a real priest to give her penance. The kid was safe; that's what was important. If there was a God up there somewhere, then He would know she had saved the little boy.

“Get the map out, Elva, and make it snappy. You know where we are; find some back roads and give me directions. We'll head south and maybe our chances will be better once we hit Delaware and Maryland. We'll ditch the pop-up as soon as we can. I'll smear the license plates with mud and maybe we can hole up in some other campground. For now, it's the only thing I can think of. Don't even say you're sorry, because I don't want to hear your sniveling. I'm dumping you, Elva, first chance I get. You ain't nothin' but trouble.”

Elva clenched her teeth and then bit her tongue. Dump me, my ass, she thought bitterly. Kill me is more like it. Still, she was glad she'd helped the kid. She would do it again in a heartbeat. She felt suddenly defiant as she flipped the map over. Maybe she was stupid like Cudge said and, then again, maybe she wasn't. “If you take Route 535 south for a while, you can either pick up 33, or at that point look for some other back roads. There ain't too much on this map, or if there is, I can't see it, the print is too small. This map must be twenty years old. The amusement park ain't even on it.”

“Do you see any campgrounds listed?” Cudge asked.

“No.”

“Then get out the camp guide and find one. Do I have to think for you, too?”

Elva dug under the seat and pulled out a tattered loose-leaf book. With nimble fingers she found the page she wanted. “There's two KOA camps open and the others are closed for the year. This is October.”

“Shit!”

 

Davey was wedged in between the bunks on either side of the pop-up. It hurt when he took a deep breath and something was pounding inside his chest. If only Duffy were here to hug. He sniffled, wishing he had a tissue to blow his nose. The dark didn't scare him, only the smell of mothballs was making him sick.

Motion, rocking—the camper was moving! The tires were bouncing over the road; the bad man was taking him away. Davey realized that the man didn't know he was trapped inside the camper. If he just stayed very quiet and waited, he would have his chance to get away. Wait, instinct told him. Wait.

The rocking wasn't so bad now. It didn't seem as though the wheels of the camper were bounding over holes and ruts. No, it seemed almost smooth, like when he rode his bicycle off the back lawn and onto the paved drive. It was a road—a highway, Davey thought, making the connection.

His legs hurt. The leather strap from the brace was cutting into his good knee, making it throb like a drum. He wanted to cry, but instead he bit his lip and tried to work the strap free of his good leg. If he could just catch the metal brace against the side of the refrigerator, he might be able to push with both hands and roll free. Time and again he tried and failed. A sob caught in his throat. If only Duffy were here. Again he tried hooking the side of the brace that curved around his shoe against the greasy refrigerator, and this time he was successful. The metal brace clanked against the refrigerator with a loud bang. Would the man and woman hear? What would they do to him? Would she help him get away again? Somehow he knew the man wouldn't let that happen.

It was cold in the pop-up; a draft was coming up from the crack where the sides and floor of the camper met.

How long was he going to have to hide in here? He had to go to the bathroom. He wished he could see what time it was. When he didn't get back at the time Aunt Lorrie had said, she would start looking for him.

He
had
to get out of here and back to Aunt Lorrie. He sighed deeply. How nice it would be if she suddenly appeared from out of nowhere and took him in her arms and held him close. He would sniff and sniff until he couldn't sniff anymore. Then he would hug her as tight as she hugged him.

Maneuvering a little, he tried to relieve the pressure in his abdomen, but it wouldn't go away. A look of horror crossed his face when he felt a warm trickle. He'd tried, but hadn't been able to hold it. Tears stung his eyes as the wetness seeped into his clothes. Only babies wet their pants.

Lorrie clapped her hands in delight when Davey's fishing pole bobbed up and down in the water. She looked around, calling his name, wanting him to be the one to reel in the fish.

A quick glance at her watch told her it was just after ten. Davey should have been back by now. “Davey! Davey!” she called. When he didn't immediately appear, she reeled the fish in herself, then removed the hook and set it free. “Oh, well. Maybe next time,” she said to herself as she gathered up their fishing gear. Lorrie shielded her eyes against the bright sun. “Just where is that boy?”

As if in answer to her question, Duffy came scampering toward her. “Hey, there, Duff, where's your master? He was supposed to be back here five minutes ago.” Duffy stood at Lorrie's feet, wagging her tail. Fully expecting to see Davey at any moment, Lorrie laughed and headed back toward the motor home. Maybe Davey was waiting for her there.

He wasn't. She set her gear down, put her hand over her eyes and scanned the campground for a sign of her nephew. “Davey! Davey, it's time to leave,” she yelled, her voice rising.

She looked down at Duffy. Davey never left Duffy alone, and Duffy never left Davey alone. Something was wrong. She could feel it. Oh, God, she had to find him. What if something happened to him?

She felt herself begin to panic, but couldn't help it. She raced around the campground, shouting Davey's name over and over. Eventually she noticed that the little dog was right on her heels. “Some watchdog you are. Where is he, Duffy? Find Davey,” she pleaded. “Go on, girl, find Davey.”

Duffy raced ahead, her short legs whirling the dry leaves in her wake like spindrift. Faster and faster the little dog raced, Lorrie right behind her. Gasping for breath, Lorrie skidded to a stop when Duffy pulled up short, wildly barking.

Lorrie walked around, peering into the brush and beneath the low-spreading evergreens. Nothing. Over and over she called Davey's name, her voice becoming hoarser with each agitated call. Davey was nowhere that she could see. She looked down at Duffy. She was staring at something but Lorrie couldn't see what it was. “What is it, girl? Is it Davey?”

Duffy woofed with excitement and ran around in circles. Lorrie knew that dogs had sharper eyes than people, but for the life of her she couldn't see anything. She scratched her nose. It must be the smell of mothballs that was making Duffy act strangely. “I don't see him, Duff,” she said, scooping the dog up into her arms. Her heart raced as she headed back to the motor home, wondering what to do. Practically every day the news carried a report of a child being abducted, sexually assaulted and killed. Every day! This was the nineties for God's sake. Things were different from when she'd grown up. If only she'd thought about that before she'd let Davey go off exploring.

Oh, God, she groaned. What was she going to tell Sara? “I lost your son.” Where
was
Davey?

Stop it! she told herself. You're jumping to conclusions. In all likelihood, Davey had just forgotten the time. After all, it was his first camping trip and there were lots of things to see and do, things he'd never seen or done before. She would wait a little longer. Eventually, he would look at his watch and come running. If he wasn't back in a half hour, she would take action.

Lorrie let her thoughts jump ahead, creating scenarios she prayed wouldn't happen. First, she supposed she should visit the other campsites and ask if anyone had seen Davey, then she should alert the campground managers and enlist their help in a search. If they didn't turn anything up, then she should call the police. Once it got dark, she would call Sara and Andrew. Or should she wait till morning? No, they had a right to know as soon as possible. After all, Davey was their son. Their son, not hers. Never hers again after this. Christ, she'd be lucky if Sara ever let her set eyes on the kid again. Maybe on his eighteenth birthday, Sara would take pity on Lorrie and let her see her nephew come of age. Her thoughts were getting more ridiculous by the second. Goddamn it, where could the kid be? Why had Duffy come back by herself? Did Davey send her back for help or had the little dog just tired of the walk and wandered back on her own?

She waited.

After precisely thirty minutes, she headed out to visit the other campers. They'd gone. Both couples. The smell of mothballs made her realize this was the same spot she and Duffy had stood at earlier. She hadn't noticed before, but the site was littered with trash. She remembered the pickup truck, the way it was painted, and wasn't at all surprised.

Lorrie took off at a run for the manager's office and told them her problem. They grabbed their jackets, locked the door and headed out to search for Davey.

“Don't worry, ma'am. We'll find him. Kids wander off all the time but they always turn up,” the manager assured her.

Lorrie nodded, thankful for his assurance, but not altogether convinced it would turn out that way this time.

“Now, tell us what he looks like and what he's wearing.”

 

Davey sneezed then immediately clapped his hands over his mouth. He sneezed again as dry, gritty dust blew up at him through the crack between the floor and sides of the pop-up. Angrily, he pounded small fists against the side of the refrigerator and tried to kick out at the cardboard boxes near the toes of his shoes. It was so dark inside the pop-up, he couldn't even see his shoes. He'd be willing to bet they were dirty. Maybe even ruined. As soon as he found Aunt Lorrie he would throw them away. Would three quarters buy new Reeboks? Three quarters for two shoes sounded right to him. He sneezed again, then again. He was hungry and he wanted a drink. He wanted out of this dark, smelly place. He lashed out with his foot at the carton filled with Cudge Balog's barbells. His foot shot back as quick as a rattler. Gently, he nursed his aching foot by holding it in both hands. “I want out of here!” he shouted. “Let me out of here!” The only response was a jolting thump as the pop-up hit a bump; another spiral of dust came in through the crack.