The Girl in the Woods

Roger moved slowly to the bedroom window, the one that looked down over the front yard. He slipped his thick fingers into the opening in the curtains and parted it just an inch or so. He saw the truck first. A nice black pickup, one of those Ford F-150s, and it shone in the morning sun like a new toy. Then Roger saw the man. He stepped away from the front porch and looked up, causing Roger to release the curtain and jump back into the room. But then the man moved across the yard and started looking in the big front window, allowing Roger to get a better look at him. He was tall with a shaved head, and he moved with his shoulders back like a military guy or a cop. He wore a leather jacket over a black t-shirt, and even from that far away Roger could tell the man was muscular and strong.

 

But he wasn't driving a cop car. Far from it. Roger knew that plain-clothes cops drove oversized, dark-colored sedans and wore suits and ties. None of them drove pickups or wore leather jackets. So maybe he wasn't a cop after all. Maybe he was just a guy, a tough-looking, well-built guy. So then why was he standing in Roger's yard, examining the house like he wanted to buy it?

 

Roger again hoped he would just go away, but instead the man walked over to the front door and knocked again, just as loud, just as insistently. Roger didn't know what to do, but he had to do something because the man wasn't going to go away. He took a deep breath and decided to answer the door. But he stopped before the left the bedroom.

 

"Remember," he said to the girl. "Silence. Absolute silence."

 

 

 

The girl didn't do anything. She didn't even grunt.

 

Roger went down the stairs and approached the front door. He stopped near the front window and peeked out again. The man wasn't on the front stoop anymore, but rather was moving around the side of the house toward the back yard, back where the path to the clearing began. He couldn't go back there, Roger thought. He might walk into the woods and find the place no one was supposed to know about.

 

Roger undid the lock, the tumbler squeaking and resisting after years of disuse, and when he finally got it undone, he pulled the door open and stepped outside.

 

"Hello," he said. "Hello?"

 

 

 

The sun was bright, the day cool. Roger squinted against the brightness and realized he had come outside barefoot, wearing only pajama bottoms and an old T-shirt. He thought maybe the man hadn't heard him, but then he reappeared from the side of the house, a pleasant and somewhat puzzled look on his face.

 

"Oh, hello," the man said.

 

"Hello," Roger said again. He couldn't think of anything else to say.

 

"Nice house. How long have you lived here?"

 

 

 

"All my life," Roger said. "Are you looking to buy it? It's not for sale."

 

 

 

The man laughed. "No, I don't want to buy it. I just wanted to know if you were around a few weeks ago. Were you?"

 

 

 

Roger looked back at the house. "I guess."

 

 

 

"Did you hear that a girl was kidnapped out on County Road 600?"

 

 

 

Roger nodded. "I read about it in the paper."

 

 

 

"Did you see or hear anything around that time? Notice anything unusual?"

 

 

 

Roger's throat felt dry and scratchy, like he had swallowed dust. "Are you a cop or something?"

 

 

 

The guy smiled a little. "Yes, I am."

 

 

 

"But you're not in uniform," Roger said. "And you don't have a car."

 

 

 

"Would you like to see my badge?" the man said.

 

Roger nodded. "Yes."

 

 

 

The man reached into an inside pocket of his jacket. When he did, Roger saw a small pistol clipped to his belt. He brought the badge out in a folded leather case. He held the case open so that Roger could see the badge.

 

"Officer Jason McMichael with the New Cambridge Police Department."

 

 

 

Roger didn't look at the badge closely. It looked bright and shiny. He believed the guy really was a cop. "Okay," he said.

 

"So, seen anything unusual out here?"

 

 

 

"I don't think so."

 

 

 

"You must be cold," the cop said. "Do you want to talk inside your house?"

 

 

 

"I'm not cold."

 

 

 

"You sure? We can just step inside."

 

 

 

"No. Not without a warrant."

 

 

 

The man looked surprised. He raised his eyebrows, and Roger wished he hadn't said what he had said. But he hadn't been able to stop himself. He didn't want the man in the house, and that's what they said on TV when cops wanted to come into the house and they weren't welcome.

 

"Okay," the man said. "But you're not in any trouble. I just thought you might have been more comfortable."

 

 

 

"I'm fine."

 

 

 

The man nodded. He leaned back, tilting his head so he could examine the windows upstairs.

 

"You live here alone?"

 

 

 

"Yes."

 

 

 

"Always?"

 

 

 

"Since my parents died."

 

 

 

The man turned toward the side of the house, the area he was walking toward when Roger came out and called him.

 

"How far back does your land go?"

 

 

 

"Far," Roger said. "Way back there's some farmland, and maybe some new houses after that. But it's all a long way back. I don't really go back there."

 

 

 

The cop stared into the distance at the trees for a moment. He appeared to be thinking of something, but Roger had no idea what. Maybe he was wondering if Roger was lying or maybe he wondered what was out there in the woods, back beyond the trees where the last girl was buried and the bones of the other girls lay scattered. Roger didn't know.

 

The man shrugged. "Okay," he said. He reached into his inside pocket again, the same place where he kept his badge, and brought out a business card. "If you see or hear anything unusual around here, give me a call. There's a chance we'll be back to search this area anyway."

 

 

 

Roger took the crisp, white card. "Sure, I'll keep my eyes open."

 

Bell, David Jack's books