The Last Girl Read online

  Bobby was shaking his head in amazement when his phone rang, Boy George starting the chorus of “I’ll Tumble 4 Ya.” Bobby’s eyes were still on the screen as his fingers opened the phone. “Hello?”

  “Bobby, are you reading this foolery?” Piper asked.

  “Princess, I can’t believe anyone would respond to this garbage.”

  “Maybe Sonya is right, the slasher might be on the Blue and White all the time.”

  “You think this ghost94 is the slasher?” Bobby asked.

  “Maybe, but he’s new, says so on the members’ page.”

  “I wonder if Sonya found anything interesting on our friends lists.”

  “It might take awhile. I also think it’s more likely that the slasher would be looking for girls, not boys.”

  “That doesn’t bother me at all.”

  “Bobby, if I gave you some gas money, could you take me somewhere on your scooter?”

  Bobby’s motor-scooter was stored in his bedroom, leaning against the wall, covered with an old sheet, newspapers underneath the wheels. He had not used it in months. “Where do you want to go?”

  “I’ll tell you later, but I can have the money for you tomorrow.”

  “All right. I’ll take the old scooter out and try to start it.”

  *****

  Helga received her booster shot at the Marine Animal Clinic and Aron stopped at the L+M Market on the way home, Bill going inside with him, Helga staying in the truck.

  Bill and Aron were turning their cart from one aisle to the next when they heard a familiar voice behind them. “Hi, Bill. Aron.”

  Bill turned around first, taking in the two men in front of him. “Hi.“

  The older man, bald with dark eyes and a broad, compact build, gave Bill a warm smile. “I’m Mike. Mike Winstead.“

  Mike had worked with Bill at Marine Paper Products, and Mike was there when Bill got lost in the woods the last time he went hunting.

  Aron recognized Mike, although he had only met the man a few times. “You remember Mike, don’t you, Bill?”

  Bill smiled and nodded. Aron knew he was faking it, he did not want to seem rude. “Oh, yeah. Took me a minute.”

  “This is my son, Trey,” Mike said.

  Aron had not met Trey before, who looked like a younger version of his father, with the same eyes and stocky build, wearing jeans and a fleece jacket with “Metal Concepts” stitched above the breast. He wore work boots on his feet.

  Trey nodded a hello and Mike asked,”How are you boys doing?”

  Aron shrugged. “Oh, fine.”

  “Trey bagged an eight-point buck last year out at that property, near North Marine.”

  “That’s great,” Bill said.

  “Trey went out there last weekend and deer everywhere.”

  Aron knew Mike did not mean to seem insensitive. Bill had already sold some of his hunting gear to Mike, including a Winchester rifle.

  Aron, trying to find a way to get rid of the awkwardness, asked,”Is the fishing good out that way?”

  “Yeah,” Mike said. “My cousin went out there on the river and saw some trout last summer.”

  “We’ll have to go out there,” Aron said, looking at Bill.

  “The salmon are out in April,” Mike said. “Well, Trey and I have to finish our shopping. Nice talking to you again Bill, Aron. Take it easy.”

  Mike walked off, joining his son, who had wandered to the produce section.

  Bill was silent as Aron filled the cart with milk, Dr. Pepper, a bag of dog food, and bread. Aron crossed these items off a list as he and Bill moved down each aisle.

  “Carolyn’s birthday is coming up,” Bill said.

  Bill handed Aron his checkbook, and Aron wrote in everything but the amount. “September fifteenth. I could get some flowers.”

  Aron and Bill got in line at the checkout. Bill grabbed a Milky Way, throwing it in the cart.

  “Have you told Sonya?” Bill asked.

  Aron shook his head. “But I think she’s starting to figure it out.”

  “You should just tell her.”

  “I’ll wait until she wants to ask.”

  “She might be too afraid to ask.”

  “Grab me a Snickers.”

  Bill tossed the Snickers in the cart.

  “Bill?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Don’t tell her. I don’t think it’s the right time, too soon after Carolyn.”

  Bill looked down, his thick white hair curling around his wrinkled face. He was very handsome once, both of his wives suffering fits of jealousy if he spoke too long to any other woman. “I don’t remember him, Aron.”

  “Mike Winstead?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You worked with him at the mill, you would go hunting with Mike and your other friends.”

  Bill, at these moments, reminded Aron of their father, also named Aron. The senior Aron had been a dentist, tall and blond. No one ever found him boring or became angry at him, including Bill’s mother, Britt. He was often unfaithful, but Britt always forgave him, even when he brought Aron home.

  He stopped being funny and bright with the progression of the Alzheimer’s. He gradually forgot how to play piano or the stories he would tell about the war. When he became depressed and withdrawn, Bill would become the same, not knowing how to cope. Britt took over, and did not resent Bill and Aron moving to Canada; Bill with Elke and John, and later Aron for college.

  “Who was Mike with?” Bill asked.

  “His son, Trey. Bagged an eight-point.”

  “He looks familiar.”

  “He probably went hunting with you and Mike.”

  “Probably.”

  Aron eased his cart up in line, and Bill started to empty the cart, putting the bread and milk on the rolling belt towards the cashier.

  Mike and Trey had paid for their items in another check-out and were walking past, heading for the automatic doors. Bill saw Mike and took quick steps to catch up. “Hey, Mike, did you take that new Winchester out? How did it work for you?”

  Mike turned around, his smile having returned. “Oh, I took it out for duck season...”

  *****

  Piper’s bedroom was four times the size of Sonya’s or Bobby’s rooms, with her own large desk in the corner, the walls long painted pink, the canopy bed in lacy white, with a small fireplace and sofa, a flat-screen TV on the wall. Piper could entertain several friends in this room, but she preferred to keep her visitors downstairs.

  Her room was a place where even her mother left her alone. Jo-Jo was allowed to lay on the bed, but Piper, an only child, did not mind some solitude.

  Piper’s parents divorced by the time she was six years old, her relationship with her father cold at best. David Jones was a man who felt closer to his Blackberry than most people, and Piper had inherited this tendency, enjoying impersonal exchanges on the Web than long phone conversations with friends, except for Bobby.

  She sat at her desk while staring at the screen on her MacBook. Her eyes moved from side to side, reading each confusing word, a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

  “Piper–

  Your little piggies must be squealing over the Ravisher, who sees their faces like uncooked hams he can’t wait to slice to pieces. A diamond can cut into skin or bone, glass a distant memory, along with the floaters. Your swine will hold their pearls close, won’t they? Your little world is turning to dirt, and I know you don’t like that, because your secrets will be dug up by someone. If you want to avoid this, visit me, let me tell you a story...”

  Piper pushed herself away. She moved her gaze to the window, catching a glimpse of red and yellow leaves, tree limbs brushing against the glass. Halloween would come, the leaves falling hard, then another Thanksgiving and Christmas. Half of the school year would be over.

  Piper had already asked Bobby if he would take her on his scooter, because she could never get a ride from anyone
else out to Haven Rest, almost twenty miles away.

  I could use my whole allowance, only to end up hearing more gibberish, Piper thought. And how does she know that the slasher calls himself the Ravisher? Diamonds and floaters? She’s supposed to be medicated in that place, but I know better than to underestimate her. If I didn’t know better, I’d call her a genius.

  *****

  Ann-Marie Holden concluded the second open house that evening at the three-bedroom, two bathroom home at Whispering Pines, locking the front door. When she turned around, briefcase in hand, she saw a figure run past her car.

  The sun had yet to set, and she took in his dark T-shirt and gray sweatpants, stained with sweat. Ann-Marie shook her head, chiding herself for her paranoia.

  The little bastard has to be long gone, she thought. He wouldn’t dare come back, and I’ll bet everyone will be watching, just like me.

  She gazed at the houses in front of her, all of a similar design and color. A peaceful, boring place where everyday feels like the day before, unless something terrible happens. Ann-Marie shivered in her long coat, feet chilled in open-toed heels. She had the kind of feeling Granny Rae would have described as someone walking over her grave. Ann-Marie could not ignore the sinking in her gut as she stared at the darkening sky.

  The jogger was far away by the time she got inside her car and turned on the heat. She tried to relax, but her mind was making leaps, wanting to imagine Jess’s attacker having enough nerve to come back and slash another girl’s face.

  He could do something worse next time, she thought.

  She noticed a U-Haul truck cruising up the driveway of a house nestled in the cul-de-sac. A “For Sale” sign was in the front yard, courtesy of Compass Realty, chief rival of Ann-Marie’s employer, Harbortown Realty. The competition had become even more fierce, although Ann-Marie had survived by being creative, searching out areas with the best school systems or where charter schools were going to be built, banking on young couples who wanted their children to get the best education or retired people who were getting ready to sell for a condo or apartment. She watched the divorce announcements and obituaries in the Marine Press, looking for potential clients.

  Whispering Pines was dotted with realtor’s signs in almost every yard. The house Ann-Marie was trying to sell contained used furniture purchased by her office; an empty house contained no warmth, turning off a possible buyer. The same beige sofa and burgundy chairs were shipped from house to house on the list, Ann-Marie doing the lifting on more than one occasion. She even cleaned the houses at times, the owners leaving their messes behind when they fled.

  Ann-Marie watched a man come out of the U-Haul truck. She could not make out his face, but a boy, around eight years old, came from the front door, running up to the man, shaking his head.

  He doesn’t want to leave the house, Ann-Marie thought. Abandoning his room, his friends, his school...

  Ann-Marie watched the man bring out two kitchen chairs on his own. A teenaged boy followed, helping with the dining table and a couch. She wondered how long they had lived in that house, which looked like more than three bedrooms, with a three-car garage. The color was beige and white, with a gabled roof and a large picture window. A paved driveway. She could imagine the foyer and a staircase leading to a wide hallway and spacious bedrooms.

  The owners could ask for over a hundred thousand, she thought, but they would be lucky to get ninety-five.

  She did not envy their Compass realtor.

  Ann-Marie took the short drive home to find Jess asleep on the couch, Gramma Joan watching TV. She thought of the attacker taking the ring off of Jess’s finger, an heirloom from Granny Rae, and Ann-Marie hoped she never met the guy, because she would like to make him hurt, just as he hurt Jess.

  She found herself in the kitchen, taking a bottle of wine from the refrigerator. Joan, when she entered the kitchen, saw Ann-Marie taking a glass from the cupboard and asked if Ann-Marie wanted to drink alone. She shook her head, getting another glass out for her mother.

  Joan, if a stranger should look upon her, would only see a woman over sixty years old with white hair and skin that was just starting to get deeply wrinkled. She did not swear or drink too much. She possessed a peaceful nature, so she underplayed whatever tragedies or injustices she had experienced, telling only two people she had been raped over forty years ago; her husband and Ann-Marie.

  “I wonder if he threatened her,” Joan said.

  Ann-Marie shook her head while she poured enough white wine into the glass to fill it almost to the brim, doing the same with Joan’s glass. “She said he didn’t speak to her.”

  “Sometimes, they like to talk afterwards, but my attacker got me in the house. In the kitchen. He said that if I fought, he’d kill you and your brother. You two were sleeping upstairs.”

  Ann-Marie had spoken with her mother about the rape only twice since Joan had told her ten years ago, after Ann-Marie’s father died. “How did he know?”

  “I think he had been watching the house, planning for when I was alone. Your father worked nights then.” Joan took a sip of wine. “I was getting ready for bed. The back door was unlocked. I mean, this was Marine County in the 1960s, not like it is now. He let himself in while I was in the kitchen. He threatened me with a knife, then pushed me over the table...”

  “Did you call the police, Mom?”

  “Oh, no! You didn’t do that back then. I had no idea who he was. I never saw him around town or anywhere after, thank God. And you know what? I can only remember a few things about what he looked like. I think he had dark hair and blue eyes. He was wearing a white T-shirt, maybe. He smelled like the paper mill, so he could have worked there. I could smell it on his hand, the one he covered my mouth with. It took me years just to remember the little things.”

  “Do you think he would have been arrested if you reported it?”

  “Maybe, but DNA couldn’t be used back then. All I did was take a long bath and kept the house locked up.”

  “Nothing was left on Jess.”

  “Jess said a police officer took pictures of her cuts before the stitches. What are they hoping to find?”

  “Maybe the knife?” Ann-Marie asked.

  “I’ll bet he thinks he’s slick and that knife is at the bottom of Lake Michigan by now.”

  “It’s going to take another attack, Mom.”

  “He’s got a taste of it, so don’t think he wants to stop now.”

  Chapter Seven

  Sonya finished the school day, finding Bill raking leaves in the backyard.

  “Your dad went on another interview...somewhere,” he said.

  “Is it okay if I ride my bike to the park?” Sonya asked.

  Bill shrugged. “Fine with me, but be back before dark.”

  She grabbed her camera from the dresser drawer in her room, placing it around her neck. Her ten-speed was in the garage and Bill said nothing as she pedalled down the driveway, Helga watching her go.

  Jess lived on Warner, just three blocks away. Farm Park was half-way there, the perfect cover for checking out Jess’s neighborhood.

  Sonya braved the Farm Road traffic, hoping Aron would not pass her on his way home.

  Sonya noticed that Bobby and Piper were quiet at school, not socializing with anyone but her. Piper seemed distracted and Bobby kept looking around, as if waiting for someone to make an insulting remark. The bell rang before Sonya realized Bobby was watching for SkolClik.

  Sonya turned left on Warner Avenue, going another half-block before reaching Jess’s house.

  The afternoon was cool and sunny. The street was paved and Sonya stopped at the edge of the driveway, staring up at the spot where Jess was attacked.

  Sonya had no intention of visiting Jess, she was more interested in how the Ravisher found a way to sneak into Jess’s yard through the woods.

  She left her bike in the shrubbery between Jess’s house and the next door nei
ghbor, taking a walk down the block. She soon came to the fenced entryway of the Whispering Pines subdivision, a winding paved road cutting through several acres containing new and incomplete houses, surrounded by trees and carefully tended lawns, leaves covering the black roofs of every house.

  Sonya pulled the camera from the cord around her neck and raised the lens, taking a series of random photos. She could not avoid the realtor’s signs. She took a photo of every other house, including one of the largest, beige and white, nestled in a cul-de-sac.

  Sonya noticed the large pickup truck in the driveway. She looked closer, and could make out the gold and glass chandelier in the back. Beside it, a sink.

  The owners were stripping the house.

  Sonya knew she was watching a crime take place. Cal, when their house was almost foreclosed on, had been tempted to take out all of the appliances and sell what he could, but his attorney strongly advised against it.

  Sonya slipped the Kodak behind her when she saw a man come out, carrying a medicine cabinet, the mirror reflecting the porch. He did not seem to notice her, the camera now in her jacket pocket as she took long strides down the lane.

  She almost ran through the entrance, leaving Whispering Pines behind her, getting closer to Jess’s house. When she came to her bike, she was calmer, and decided to get one last photo.

  She raised the lens to the driveway, getting as close as she could to the place where Jess was attacked without entering the yard. She lined up the shot and pressed the button.

  She was turning around, the camera still between her fingers, when the pickup passed her. The bed was full; cupboards, chandelier, sink, and the medicine cabinet held down with ropes.

  Sonya noticed the driver was wearing a trucker cap, lid pulled low, and sunglasses. Her gaze was still on him when a flash went off to her right, behind the driver.

  A small window, part of the back seat of the cab, was rolled down, the camera phone open and taking a picture of Sonya, who only had seconds to realize she was being photographed as the truck went by.

  *****

  Sonya was still puzzled when she reached Bill’s house.

  A small white motor scooter stood in the driveway. She got off her bike, bringing it closer to the garage. When she passed the gate, she found Bobby and Piper in the back yard with Bill.

  Bobby was stroking the top of Helga’s big head. He was wearing a white Billy Idol T-shirt and girl’s jeans, a chain hanging from a back pocket. His hair was slicked back. Piper wore a white sweater, plaid skirt, and red leggings.