The dollhouse, p.27
The Dollhouse, page 27
Grace was asleep in Bud’s bed. Neither Alfred nor Jennifer had come to cable them in last night. The door was closed and padlocked, but they were free to move around. All three girls cried themselves to sleep, with Grace wailing for Bud, a boy she’d known only a few days, as if her little heart was shattered. Angel understood; her heart was shattered and little shards of it were creating leaks in the rest of her. It wouldn’t be long now before she disappeared into the pain. Not long at all.
But strength and inevitability won out, and so when the door slid open in the morning, the girls did what they always did. Neither of them looked at Bud’s empty bunk. Where had Alfred taken Bud’s body?
They didn’t have time to think. Their tenuous night’s sleep had just been intermission.
Angel was sitting on the toilet, Olivia at the sink doing her makeup, when Jennifer screeched into the bathroom, a Tasmanian devil in a glittering red evening gown. “It’s your fault! If you’d kept that demon child under control he’d be alive! It’s your fault he killed my boy!”
Jennifer slammed Olivia up against the bathroom wall. Angel pushed herself up, ignoring all of the aches and pains from yesterday’s battle, not sure she had the strength to fight again, but she’d do what she had to do. Angel was vaguely surprised to see Jennifer now that the secret was ‘out’ but she didn’t have time to consider it, things were moving too fast. Again. “If you had kept that brat under control, none of this would have happened!”
Olivia had nothing to say, there was nothing she could say in response to the bizarre accusation, nothing that would appease the monster that was attacking her.
Jennifer gripped Olivia’s jaw with her giant hand and squeezed until the girl’s lips pressed into a tiny round O of pink. Olivia’s eyes bulged. Jennifer’s grip on Olivia’s jaw was so fierce the girl’s feet barely touched the ground. “You. Killed. My. Boy.”
Olivia tried to shake her head in denial, but Jennifer was having none of it. She pulled Olivia’s face forward until their noses touched, then slammed her back into the wall, again and again. Finally, Jennifer let out a single banshee-like scream and dropped Olivia like a dirty, wet rag. The wet patches of blood where Olivia’s head had repeatedly struck the wall looked like spin-art Bud made at the county fair, before. Small splatters and drips speckled the white to the floor. Olivia was breathing, barely.
Jennifer wasn’t done yet. The enormity of what was about to come was clear; she’d gone utterly still, her eyes terrifyingly empty as she studied Olivia.
Angel wanted to move, wanted to protect her friend, wanted to scream that Bud was her boy, not Jennifer’s, she wanted to fight, but the thoughts would not become action. Something dreadful bad was coming. Something worse than what had already come. It was too much. She didn’t think she could bear any more. She would swear on a thick stack of bibles she couldn’t. What she wanted, more than anything, anything at all, was to wake up from this horrible nightmare and be back at home with her mother and Bud. What she wanted was for it to just stop, to just drop away, to find herself standing in the middle of a field of flowers somewhere. Somewhere quiet. With no more bad. And if that meant she had to be dead, that was okay, she’d take it, just let it happen quickly, with no more pain.
That wasn’t going to happen. While she was alive, she had to be strong for Olivia. She would need her, whatever happened—if she lived through this. If they lived through this. They would need each other. There was no one else.
The sudden brief thought that Angel might be left alone, alone with a tiny little girl and no one else, to wait for her turn at death at the hands of these crazy people, was so completely overwhelming Angel’s knees buckled and she slid to the floor.
Which put her at a better level to see the next act.
Jennifer lifted her right foot and lowered 5” spiked inches of a stiletto into Olivia’s breast. She pressed slowly, slowly, putting more and more weight on that heel, not relenting until Olivia revived to shriek in pain and terror. The fabric of Olivia’s blouse gave under the point, and her blood painted the white cotton to match the spin-art wall, Olivia’s warm, wet, sticky blood much darker than the red of the glossy patent shoe.
“Stop. Please. Stop.” Olivia whispered, too broken to resist with anything but words.
But there was no stopping, not now. Jennifer reached down and grabbed Olivia’s shirt collar, dragged her up. The shirt, ripped and now blood-soaked, slid off the girl’s shoulders to the floor. Jennifer threw Olivia against the sink, reached around, and grabbed the hot curling iron Olivia had been using when Jennifer roared into the bathroom.
Angel pulled her knees to her chest and tried to go somewhere else but...
“This—” Jennifer’s left hand was centered in the middle of Olivia’s back, between her shoulder blades, “is—”
Jennifer leaned hard on Olivia’s upper torso, pinning her, preventing her from wiggling away from the terror to come. With her right hand, Jennifer pressed the hot curling iron between Olivia’s shoulder blades and ignored the shrieks of pain that followed. Olivia’s screams echoed in the small room. Jennifer roared above her to finish, “—for my boy!”
Angel sobbed but nothing came out. She couldn’t look, couldn’t bear the pain and terror and shock on Olivia’s face. She couldn’t stand the craziness that glowed around Jennifer. Couldn’t stand the way her own eyes were playing tricks, like one of those old-time toys where you turned a tube and saw multicolored designs, and turned it a different way and the pattern changed. In Angel’s mind, Jennifer and Alfred were blurring into one, circling in a haze of images and sounds and smells and tastes until she wanted to puke. Angel slapped her hands against the shower stall to keep herself from drifting away.
Only when Olivia collapsed again in a pain-induced faint did Jennifer pull back the curling iron. The smell of burning flesh was sickening. Jennifer threw the cordless iron into the shower at Angel. The hot metal, sticky with blood and human flesh, grazed Angel’s bare leg but compared to what Olivia was suffering, the burn was no worse than a flea bite, and she made no sound.
“Take care of the little cunt. I don’t want to hear from any of you devils for the rest of the day.”
And it was over.
For now.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FIVE
December 25, 2006
“Why aren’t you concerned? It’s clear Edward is devolving and now Bud’s dead and we’re all going to go down. We need a plan!” Jennifer’s voice drifted down through the vent.
It had been a very quiet day, and this time Angel didn’t care whether waking Olivia would alert them. She hissed. “Olivia! Wake up!” Olivia’s sleepy mewling got louder, instead of quieter.
Of course, Grace was the one who woke. “I tell her.” She announced sleepily. Angel couldn’t see in the dark but heard the crib rattle, then small footsteps on the concrete floor, followed by a toddler-version loud whisper, “Olivia, the people are talking!”
Upstairs, Jennifer was in a tizzy. “You can’t just pretend I don’t exist. It’s your responsibility to care for me. I’m here because of you! That means you have to ensure my happiness and well-being!”
“Good God. I am not obligated to you. I can turn my back on you at any time.” Alfred said.
Jennifer’s laugh was brittle. “Oh. Then why haven’t you? You certainly act like I’m nothing but a pain in your ass. If you can ‘turn your back on me’ why am I still here?”
“You are correct. We need a plan,” Alfred responded. The pacing made the floorboards squeak. Angel guessed they were in the kitchen right above the Closet. “Let’s be clear, though, Edward and I are the ones at risk. So please, spare the dramatics.”
“If one of you does something to screw this up, what will become of me?” Jennifer’s whine became a wail. “I most certainly could not survive prison.”
A new voice, the one Angel had heard that other time, came out of nowhere. “None of us could. Alfred, if you hadn’t gone so off the deep end with your damned ‘dolls’ this wouldn’t have happened, so please don’t deflect your responsibility. I’m fairly confident your deteriorating control chipped away at my ability to maintain my situation. Jennifer is the one that has kept us from completely falling apart and having your ridiculous plan discovered.”
What were they talking about? What did it mean? Angel wished it was light so she could see Olivia’s face. Was Edward another one of “them”—the personalities? Or was he a real person?
Alfred went into full-blown rage. “I’ve done nothing but try to put us back together, to fix the past so we have a strong, stable future. It’s not my fault these damned Dolls are useless!”
The voice Angel had heard once before spoke. “I’ve told you for years now there’s no fixing the past. All we can do is manage the future and try to stay within the lines so we survive. But your damned temper! You’re just as much of a prick as the assholes that tormented us when we were young, maybe worse, because you know exactly what it feels like to be on the receiving end, and yet you enjoy inflicting pain. You say your silly doll games are meant to fix the past but the fact is, you’re simply repeating it, over and over and over. And now look what’s happened. Three boys are dead.”
“I’ll own Bud, and Charlie, but you’re the one who killed Lord. That was all you.” Alfred snapped.
Angel teared up again, even though she’d thought she was completely out of tears for her brother. Charlie must be the one he and Alfred had talked about before, the special one. But who was Lord?
Alfred and the other man were silent.
Jennifer finally said, “I might be able to get us out of here so we can start fresh somewhere new.” Her voice grew quiet, just barely discernible through the vent. “As with most things in life, it will be painful and ugly before we find beauty, but it must be done.”
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED SIX
December 25, 2006
Whatever had people done before the Internet? A little clicking around on the Internet brought Jennifer to a website called Reddit, and on the Reddit, she’d discovered a whole lot of wonderfully generous people who were more than happy to share information about pretty much any topic.
First, she fell into a hole of funny animal pictures. Then, she learned about some geeky science things. And then there was the NSFW—“Not suitable for work”—she figured that out quickly enough. But, finally, she found an area that gave her all the information she needed.
From now on she would get anything she wanted, by mail, nearly anonymously, without ever leaving home. Magic.
Jennifer was ready to leave, not just this house, but Wyoming. Good God, Wyoming. Not what she’d signed up for, or expected. A small town in the middle of a small-minded state. Nothing interesting ever happened. And she was lonely. But more than that, she wanted to leave this life. These expectations. She was oh, oh so ready. It would be complicated. And painful. But this wasn’t working. Even she had to admit that. Of course, she’d try to talk Alfred into releasing the Dolls, but she knew there was no way Alfred would let them live without him. From the moment he’d taken them, they were his. They were no longer four humans with self-determination. They were objects to be used by him, and when they no longer provided pleasure they had no value. They would be disposed of, like trash.
When the time came, Jennifer, Edward, and Alfred would disappear, Poof! into the sunset. Jennifer would be front-facing. She would finally get to fulfill her dream. For as long as she could remember, she’d had big, beautiful plans for a peaceful life on a quiet island somewhere warm and sunny with crystal clear water and no damn drama.
And no extradition, just in case.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED SEVEN
December 25, 2006
He was very aware of the serial killer trilogy: wetting the bed, abusing animals, fire starting. He had never gotten into the abusing animals thing—mostly because it was too much work and messy. But the other two... yes, they fit his profile.
Now his history with fire was coming to good use. Before he’d moved the girls into the Safe, he’d drilled channels into the supporting structure that kept the first floor from crashing into the basement of the small house. He’d soaked rope with an accelerant and pulled it through the old floor-based heating ducts, from room to room.
Then, he set three fat 6” candles on an old plate and put the end of the accelerant-soaked rope into the center.
Everyone knew fire burned up, so no one would think to look in the basement, at least not right away. Especially after the first floor collapsed into it, thanks to his adjustments.
By the time anyone realized the supposedly unoccupied house was on fire, it would be too inflamed to save. And by the time investigators got around to looking through the ash and rubble, Edward Alfred Stanhope, Freddy to his family, would be long gone. To the world, Jennifer and Alfred never existed. Frederique Martin would begin her new life in a quiet French village.
The new passport and a wad of cash were in the carry on. They’d opened a bank account long ago, after selling the majority of the assets left to him in his mother's trust. Only the two houses remained, and one of them would be gone by morning. Their flight left this evening and he’d be on to his new life by this same time tomorrow before there was any reason to put a watch out for him.
Goodbye, Felicity, for once and for all. And, if he had his way, goodbye to Edward and Jennifer, as well.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED EIGHT
December 25, 2006
“This isn’t the place,” Peter hissed at Nick under his breath. They were standing on the front porch of a tidy bungalow with cheerful curtains in the windows and pink flamingos in the yard.
“Would you like to have some cookies? Tina and I—” The woman who answered the door had a cordless phone tucked between her ear and the shoulder of her fuzzy Santa sweater and kept talking even as the door swung inward. She had a German accent and a broad grin, which changed when she saw five unfamiliar people, three in police uniform, on her porch. “Maria, I’ll call you back.”
“Good afternoon, ma’am. I’m Officer Hildebrand. These are Officers Boss and Adair.” He didn’t introduce Peter or Nick. “Are you Gundel Basart?”
“What’s wrong? Is someone hurt?” She stepped back to let them in although they hadn’t asked.
“This isn’t it!” Peter whispered again, entering the foyer.
“No one is hurt, ma’am. We’re looking for this girl.” Officer Hildebrand held out a printed photo of Olivia.
“That’s—oh what’s her name. It’s on the tip of my tongue. The girl whose father is a journalist. I’ve seen her on the news.” The woman frowned at the picture, didn’t notice the father she mentioned standing five feet from her. “I don’t suppose you’re going door to door in Casper, Wyoming, asking people whether they’ve seen a missing girl from California for no good reason.”
“No, ma’am.” Officer Hildebrand agreed. “Have you seen her? In-person, not on the news.”
“No, but I spend most of my time upstairs in the sewing room, which faces the alley.”
“Ma’am, I don’t mean have you seen her walking by,” Hildebrand said. He changed tactics. “Ms. Basart, do you live here alone?”
Peter saw her eyebrow raise. She was getting irritated. “Since my husband died 25 years ago, yes, I suppose I do, unless you count two wayward cats. What is this about? And why, pray tell, are you at my door asking about a missing girl from halfway across the country?”
The pack of police moved through the narrow foyer, past the coats and winter boots and scarves and mittens, into the living room. She watched them look around, taking in the upright piano, the antique coffee table with family photos, the giant Christmas tree decorated with a lifetime of ornaments, and small candles held in individual metal holders to protect the branches. The officers seemed particularly interested in the small TV next to the fireplace with a tall stack of DVDs. One of the officers—Boss, Peter thought—stepped toward the DVDs and commented, “You have a lot of Disney and Pixar videos. Do you have kids?”
“Dozens of grandchildren and great-grandchildren. But those are for me. You don’t have to be young to enjoy G rated films, thank you very much.” Ms. Bassart was getting downright grouchy. “Will you please tell me what’s going on? Otherwise, I’m going to need to call my son. This is becoming uncomfortable.”
Officer Boss continued examining the stack of videos and the area around, but the mention of her son prompted another round of questions. “Does he live nearby?”
“Now, look, Officers, I have the utmost respect for law enforcement—hell, I organized the annual Cop Feed here in the neighborhood for many years. But this is too much. Either tell me what you’re after or get out of my house.”
Officer Adair smiled, and Peter decided he was going to play Good Cop. Hildebrand was Bad Cop—or, rather, cold cop—and Boss was nosy cop. “Ma’am, we have reason to believe the girl, Olivia Baden, is or has been nearby. I’m sure you understand, when it comes to a missing child, we can’t leave any stone unturned.”
Officer Boss pointed to two blue paper envelopes. “You’re a Movies by Mail subscriber?”
Ms. Basart glanced over her shoulder, nodded, gave her attention to Hildebrand and Adair, “Yes. What of it?” She glanced at Nick, then Peter, and her expression changed, curiosity taking the lead over irritation—slightly. “What do you mean, you have reason to believe she’s nearby? What kind of reason? Has someone seen her?”
