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Laura didn't want to spell out the importance of their meeting, not with Brett in earshot. "What's the problem? You said we can stay for the night."
There was a pause as Je
"What's wrong with her?"
"Ooops. I have to go," Je
So Brett wouldn't suspect anything, Laura continued to fake conversation. "I see, well I'll drop by myself then. I hope she gets better soon. We should be there about three. Bye-bye."
Roger looked at Laura for an explanation.
"Abigail's sick."
"So where we going to stay?"
"I don't know."
Around two-thirty they reached the driveway of number 247 Farmington Road, Prairie, Indiana.
Roger drove by, then circled back looking for signs of police. The nearest house, about a quarter mile away, looked dead. But that didn't satisfy Roger. He found a back road behind Je
Roger pulled into the driveway. From a distance it looked like a Je
But up close, shutters were broken, shingles were missing, half the chimney had lost bricks, and the paint had faded to a yellowy flesh color and was peeling badly. The place looked diseased. The lawn hadn't been cut in weeks. Yet, beside the garage was a small power mower-one that looked manageable by Je
The plan was for Laura to find out what the story was with Je
Roger pulled up to the front door. All the shades were drawn. No sign of Je
Laura got out and went to the door. A small handwritten note on the bell said OUT OF ORDER. Another said NO SOLICITORS.
Taped to the door was an envelope on which in small fastidious script was the name "Wendy."
Furious that Je
That was it? Laura thought. Drive sixteen bloody hours with every law enforcement agency on their ass, and what Je
Laura banged on the door.
Nothing.
And standing in the open like this only heightened her anxiety. She waved for Roger and Brett to wait in the car, then went around back.
The kitchen door was also locked. But one window was open and the screen was up a few inches so she could get her fingers under it.
Laura slid up the window. Then she went around front and waved Roger and Brett off. Around back again, she climbed inside.
The immediate impression was how dark and lifeless the place was-like a house whose occupants were away on vacation.
Although the curtains were drawn, the small kitchen appeared tidy. It was done in white and pink. Magazine pictures of kittens were magneted to the refrigerator. Also some baby photos.
On the table sat a bowl of overripe fruit with some tiny black flies buzzing around it. Beside the bowl was a small pile of mail. On the top sat an electric bill addressed to Je
Je
Laura was shocked. Je
Feeling a hum of uneasiness, Laura moved to the dim front foyer to call upstairs when she glanced into the living room. Her heart nearly stopped.
It was decorated for Christmas.
By the fireplace sat a large artificial tree fully decked with bulbs, icicles, and lights. Opened presents lay in boxes on the floor. By the fireplace sat a large pink doll-house, its rooms neatly laid out in miniature furniture and figures. It was a vague replica of Je
Across the foyer, the dining room was decorated for a birthday party, but it must have been from a while ago because some of the colored streamers criss-crossing the ceiling had come loose and most of the balloons had deflated. A partially-eaten cake sat in the middle of the table around which were several chairs, all but two occupied by large stuffed bu
A sick chill rippled through Laura.
From the second floor she heard a faint sound. A tinkling, barely audible.
She moved toward the stairs and froze. She had heard it before. The same high metallic plinkings, almost like windchimes.
Music. Background sounds in their last telephone conversation. "Frere Jacques." The tune was "Frere Jacques."
An irrational sense of dread gripped her as she began to climb the stairs. The music box Je
"Her first Christmas present."
A few more steps, and she could hear Je
"…Morning bells are ringing. Morning bells are ringing. Ding, Dang, Dong. Ding, Dang, Dong."
She reached the door.
Inside Je
"'Frere Jacques, Frere Jacques, Dormez vous? Dormez vous?…'"
The door was decaled in cartoon animals. A porcelain plaque in big happy letters said ABIGAIL'S ROOM.
A second voice sent a shard of ice through Laura's heart. A voice small and thin and singing along with Je
Laura swung open the door.
"'…So
Je
In a telescoped moment of awareness, Laura registered the silky blond hair, the brown liquid eyes, the ruddy porcelain cheeks. The pink flowered dress from the photos.
"We're singing in French," Abigail proudly a
Horror surged through Laura. The room was a mausoleum of little girlhood: Bu
"Ooooo, look," Je
"Je
"Oh, of course: And this is Abigail. I forgot how long it's been." Je
"Hi, Auntie Wendy. You look like your picture," the child said. She opened a small photo album from the shelf. "Your hair is different, but it's very flattering. I like it better." Her pronunciation was perfect.
"We have lots of pictures," Je
"Do you know how to speak French?" Abigail asked.
Laura's mind scrambled to land on something that made sense: The girl was somebody else, not Je
No, Je
No, it was Abigail, but she had some growth disorder-some awful disease that had stunted her limbs.