A terrified Cain had slowly backed away from the door as far as she could, all the way to the dirt side of her prison as it notched into the knoll. She had sat down on the mattress and never made another sound. She heard them walking away and leaving her there; she had stayed up all night in the dark, waiting to hear the hiss of the snakes who would come to bite her dead and then eat her.
Cain sat up and rubbed at one of the burns on her arm as the painful memories seeped from her mind. Desiree would strap her down in her bed and then light the cigarette and hold it over her, suddenly sticking the burning ember into her skin, making Cain scream before pulling it away and then drilling it into another part of her body until the girl cried out even louder.
Please stop, Desiree, please don’t hurt me.
I’m your mother, you will call me mother. And another burn would follow.
Mother, please don’t hurt me.
And Desiree would burn her again and cackle, Your mother doesn’t love you, Becky. She has never loved you because you don’t deserve it, not like other children who are good and pure, which you are not. You are wicked and nasty and not to be trusted.
Cain jumped up and rushed into the bathroom, where she upchucked her burger, fries, and milkshake meal into the toilet. She washed off in the sink and stumbled back into the bedroom and collapsed on the bed.
She lay there, breathing deeply until she fell asleep. In the swirls of a misty dream she saw a face with features that resembled so remarkably her own that it was like staring into a mirror. The gap in the front teeth, but dirty jeans instead of a dress, a resolute chin, a fierce look, a small hand clenched into a stubborn fist. A name kept calling out to her, but it was a muted voice in the midst of a hurricane. She just could not make it out. However, it gave her calm, a certain, necessary strength; it always had.
Cain awoke and the image vanished. She sat up and cursed. Why did it disappear as soon as she opened her eyes?
She looked outside and was surprised to see that it was pitch-dark. She’d been asleep longer than she had thought. Cain took the elevator down to the hotel bar. She sat at the end away from the live band and moodily drank her beer. The bartender was black and in her early forties with pink and purple hair, an athletic build, stylish forearm tats, an efficient manner, and a twinkle in her eye.
“You look like you need that beer, girl.”
“This one and a dozen more.”
“Hope you’re staying here then.”
“I am.”
“You in town on business?” the woman asked.
“No, just passing through from somewhere else.”
“Ain’t we all.”
She moved on when another thirsty customer held up a hand.
The TV mounted on the wall was on a news channel, and Cain choked on a mouthful of beer and spilled some of it from her glass when she saw her picture come up. The notice said that the FBI was looking for this woman, the image was from 2002, that her name is, or was, Rebecca Atkins, and that any information about her whereabouts should be sent via phone or email, and that information then flashed up on the screen.
Cain slowly put her beer down and wiped off the residue from her chin.
The bartender came over with a towel and sopped up the spilt beer from the bar. “You okay?”
“Went down the wrong way.”
Cain laid some cash down for the beer and included a healthy tip. She got up and staggered off.
The bartender turned and looked at the TV where the picture of Rebecca Atkins still filled the screen. Then she looked back at the disappearing Cain.
And she frowned as she picked up the cash.
*
After checking out of the hotel the next day, Cain did her work at the truck terminal and got her paycheck. She then called the trucking company and told them she would have to take a few days off. The man told her if she didn’t show up for work she was fired.
“Okay, I’m fired.” Cain hung up. She sat down, counted her money, made a rough calculation, and made the same call to the security firm. The manager there was a good guy, a grandfather with a soft spot for her.
“I got twenty laid-off bums waiting in line for the job, Cain, and ten of them have college degrees. You sure about this?”
“I’m sorry, but I got some place I gotta go. I can’t get out of it.”
“Okay, good luck. If you ever come back, let me know. I’d take you over some philosophy major any day.”
She filled the gas tank and set off. Cain had no idea if her decision would lead her to salvation or a prison cell. But something very powerful inside her told Cain she had to do it. After all these years, the gap in her memories had to be filled in, one way or another.
She pointed the car south and hit the gas.
Back to nightmare time.
CHAPTER
21
MANY HOURS LATER CAIN SLOWED her car and felt her breathing accelerate as she drove into Crawfordville, Georgia. This was not because of the surroundings. She had never passed any place here that was recognizable to her because the Atkinses had been careful never to bring her into town, or anywhere else. They obviously didn’t want anyone to know that they had her. At first, Cain didn’t know why that was the case. As the years went by the reason became very clear.
Cain stopped for a late dinner at a small diner with half its blinking neon lights out and with an exterior faded by time and probably shallow pockets. She wasn’t really hungry but just needed a bit of time to deal with the fact that she was back in this place.
The waitress poured out her second cup of coffee and watched as Cain listlessly poked at her food.
“Not to your liking, hon?”
Cain glanced up. The woman was well into her seventies and looked too tired and frail to still be working. The smell of stale cigarette smoke rose from her pores like a morning fog. Her teeth were nicotine stained, but her features were kind and her smile was sincere.
“No, it’s fine. Just sort of lost my appetite.”
“Haven’t seen you around before. You new in town, or just passing through?”
“Just passing through.”
“Yeah, that’s what they all say,” noted the waitress wistfully. She tucked a strand of gray hair back inside the blue cap she wore. “I’d like to say I’m just passing through sometimes, and I was born here. Born here and never got out of jail. Where you coming in from?”
“Atlanta,” Cain lied.
“Been there once, thirty years ago. Bet it’s changed a lot. Now this here place never changes. Some days that’s good, most days not so good. But it’s all I’ve got or ever known, so . . .”
“Change can be good,” said Cain.
“You sound like you speak from experience.”
“Well, experiences are all I’ve got.”
“Hope they were good ones, sweetie.”
Cain paid her bill and left without answering.
She had learned the street address for the Atkinses when she had lived in the house and seen letters addressed to them. For some reason, that address had been lodged in her memory ever since.