Ink and Bone(84)

When finally she came to the narrow road that ended in a low gate, she saw the tiny bird. He was black and white, with flashes of red, fat and happily singing his pretty song. Little bird. As she watched him, the white became snow, and the black faded into the darkness, and the red became the bloody handprint on the gate. His song faded into the wind.

Finley saw the source of the light she’d been following: a lamp burning over the doors of a barn, the ground around it a field of white. The door to the main house stood open. A red water pump sat on a raised platform, a bucket beside it. Squeak-clink. And she heard the worried lowing of a cow. This was it, the place she was supposed to find. She knew it. She’d never been more sure of anything in her life.

“Abbey!” she called. “Abbey Gleason!”

The wind picked up and blew a drift in the accumulated snow, sprayed glitter into the air, but that was the only answer.

“Abbey!”

Finley felt the cold for the first time as it seeped in through her thin jacket. Her shoes were soaked, the blood on her jeans cold to the touch.

She was about to call out again when a girl slipped from between the barn doors, which stood ajar. Finley took an eager step closer, her heart filling with relief, when another girl, this one with dark hair, emerged from the trees. Finley stepped through the gate, only to see another terribly thin child laying on the ground making snow angels.

Finley’s heart dropped, and she stood rooted watching them as they watched her. Waves of emotion pulsed through her—fear, anger, sadness. She gripped the icy gate to support herself, and the cold was razor sharp on her skin.

When the girl from the barn drew closer, Finley recognized her. Finley moved to go get her, to scoop her up in her arms and carry her away. But something stopped her. She stayed rooted as the girl moved closer, walking through the snow but leaving no trail behind her.

“She’s gone,” the girl said. “You’re too late.”

“No,” said Finley.

“You’re too late for all of us,” she said.

Finley bowed her head against a powerful rush of shame and anger. The blow of failure was so brutal that it nearly doubled her over. It filled her throat and took her breath. If she’d followed her instincts, she’d have come up here sooner. She knew that time was running out. Instead, she listened to everyone else. And now it was too late. How did Eloise stand it? The failures. No wonder she always looked so haunted, so sad. Instead of sadness, Finley felt the heat of anger. This was so wrong, so unfair.

When Finley looked up again, fists clenched, all the girls were gone. Jones came up behind her, panting with effort.

“Is this the place?” he asked.

“She’s not here,” said Finley. She bit back her tears of rage. “She’s gone.”

“You don’t know that,” he said. He put a strong hand on her arm. But she did know it. The whole place vibrated with negativity. Terrible things had happened here, just a few miles away from people who could have helped. It was infuriating, like trying to keep sand from slipping through your fingers.

Jones pocketed the flashlight he was holding, drew the gun he had in a leather holster at his waist. Finley looked at it and realized that she’d never seen a gun up close. It was flat and black and full of menace, gripped in his hand that was red and raw.

“Stay here,” he said. He gave her his signature frown—something between concern and disapproval. “Meaning, don’t go running off by yourself. You’re flesh and bone, you know. You’re not invincible.”

She was shivering now and hung back at the gate, trying to collect herself, while Jones knocked loudly on the door.

“Investigator Jones Cooper,” he said. “Your door is open and I’m coming inside.”

When he disappeared, she marveled at his nerve. Could he do that? Just walk into someone’s house? Then she thought about following him inside. But unarmed she was just a liability, wasn’t she? There were other sounds now, sirens and the approach of vehicles, though still distant. The police were coming. Too late.

Finley walked across the clearing to the barn and pushed open the big door, its hinges emitting a long squeal into the night. She saw the cow she’d heard, some chickens in a coop. The relative warmth of the indoors was a relief, even though she could still see her breath in silvery clouds. Her sinuses tingled with the smell of hay and the scent of animals in an enclosed space.

The little bird perched on an overturned bucket, singing its pretty song. She moved closer to it. It sat, puffed up and pretty, black eyes shining like jewels. When she reached for it, it disappeared. She moved to where he’d been, looking hard at the area around her. What had he wanted her to see? And then she saw a seam in what from a distance had looked like the wall of the barn. It ran from the ceiling to the ground. She looped her finger into a knot in the wood and pulled. It was a door and it opened out toward her, revealing a hidden room.

A tiny cot, a chain with a cuff attached to a ring in the floor, a battered baby doll, a broken mirror on a beam over a small, cracked sink. Finley pushed away the ugliness of it, the horror that radiated from the floors, the wall. She bit back another choke of tears, that terrible anger that burnt like acid in her throat. This is where they hid her. When the police came looking, she was in here. How many others? Where were they now?

Over in the corner, a small girl wearing a pair of jeans and an owl tee-shirt, her hair white blonde, her skin moonstone, stood.