You know what’s coming; it’s the same thing that is always coming. You wish it weren’t, but wishes don’t matter, even in dreams. The man places his hand tenderly atop your head and strokes your hair gently, almost reverently. Soon his touch takes on a more insistent quality and he begins to caress your face. His hand feels fevered, sweaty. “I know you’re awake,” he whispers.
You open your eyes at his words and shake your head in mute protest at what you know is about to happen but it doesn’t matter. It never matters. The man pulls the blanket down and lifts up your pajama top and traces the bony contours of your prepubescent body with his rough hands. He is breathing harder now, harsher. His respiration comes in gasp-like bursts; he is nearly panting.
Finally he hooks his fingers under the waistband of your flannel pajama bottoms—the ones with Aladdin and the Genie on them, they are your favorites and you wear them to bed whenever you can—and slides them over your hips and down your legs. Then he climbs on top of you and does what he came to do, ignoring your whimpers of pain and protest. He finishes quickly and then leaves the room, always with the same parting words: “You’ll learn to like it if you just give it a chance.” The door closes silently behind him and the room is plunged into darkness.
It’s painful and terrifying, and, no matter how many times he does it—and it’s a lot of times, two or three times a week—you never get used to it, it never gets any easier, and you press your face into your pillow, sobbing quietly, your tears soaking the pillowcase. You want to scream, but you never do.
You never scream.
CHAPTER 18
May 25
MARTIN SAT PATIENTLY IN his car as it idled on the side of the road. He had positioned himself roughly half the distance between Carli Ferguson’s high school and her mother’s home on the route he knew she would take after school. He knew because he had been watching her for days.
The first day of his surveillance, Martin had parked his little Nissan in the lot of a convenience store located not far from her neighborhood. He much preferred the comfort of his box truck with its specially fitted cargo hold when hunting, but he thought it might be expedient to stay away from the truck for a while, at least until the heat died down.
He had always known there might come a day when the cargo truck, for whatever reason, became impractical, and had prepared for that eventuality, planning ahead, as he always did. For years, Martin had garaged his Nissan at his mother’s home three towns away. The inconvenience was a hassle, but now his foresight was paying off—he had a vehicle at his disposal known to virtually no one.
After pulling into the convenience store lot, Martin had ambled inside and bought a soda. It was unlikely the manager would chase him off the property if he sat in his car sipping a drink he had just bought inside the store.
A few minutes later, a big, yellow school bus had come roaring by, traveling much too fast, as school buses always seemed to do. Martin made a mental note that, if the bus was involved in an accident and any harm came to his angel before he was able to snatch her, he would research the name of the careless driver and —well, let’s just say it would not be pretty. He had started his car and followed the bus at a distance, stopping and waiting as students exited, just another anonymous motorist stuck behind the bus. Eventually, the big rig had arrived at Carli’s stop, the one just down the street from her stepfather’s house, and he watched closely, waiting to see Carli exit, but she never did.
Apparently, she preferred walking home from school to riding the bus. Why that would be, Martin had no idea, but he wasn’t about to complain. He hadn’t finalized his approach yet, but knowing she sometimes went home on foot would add a few options. Martin Krall was a big believer in options.
The following day, Martin had chosen a parking spot across the street and down the road a short distance from the high school, in the direction Carli would have to walk to get home. He hoped she was not going to visit a friend’s house right after school and figured his chances were pretty good that she would not. His theory was that an all-American type like her would probably go straight home and complete her homework before doing anything else.
He was right. Five minutes after two, shortly after the kids spilled out the school’s front doors like bees exiting a hive, Carli Ferguson had come strolling along the sidewalk, engaged in an animated conversation with another girl who was roughly the same age. Martin assumed the girl must be Carli’s best friend. The other girl wasn’t exactly ugly—in fact, under normal circumstances, Martin would have considered her an intriguing possibility as his next companion—but he only had eyes for Carli.
She was dressed in tight jeans, torn across the front of both legs in the current style of teens everywhere. He didn’t get why anyone would pay good money for clothes that were already ripped, but figured it must be a generational thing. The pants were skin-tight and accentuated her butt perfectly, so Martin wasn’t about to complain. A loose-fitting, black t-shirt with the words “Life is Good” framing a smiling cartoon face was tucked into the front of her jeans, with the shirttail hanging over the back, fortunately not obscuring the view too much.
In short, Carli Ferguson looked like a typical high school girl. Except she wasn’t typical, not even a little bit. She was Martin’s angel; the girl who would help him rise above a mundane and ordinary existence. She would give him a week in heaven. Maybe more, if he played his cards right. Maybe a lot more.
The pair had walked right by Martin’s car on the way home, passing a scant few feet away from him. He had told himself he would drive away as soon as he saw Carli approach, but he became so enthralled by the girl’s natural beauty and innocently suggestive sexuality that he simply forgot to leave.