Before She Was Found(20)

“I can’t stay long. I just wanted to thank you for stopping by earlier and to apologize. I know that Jim wasn’t exactly...” She struggled to find the right word so I jumped in to rescue her.

“No apology necessary. Tell me about Cora. Did surgery go well?” I asked.

“The doctor said it went well considering all her injuries.” Mara’s face buckled momentarily as she struggled to keep her composure. I waited and she went on. “There will be scars.” Mara’s fingers fluttered near her cheek. “But it could have been much worse and Cora is a strong little girl. She’ll be okay. We’ll be okay.”

“Is Cora awake?” I asked. “Is she in much pain?”

“Some.” Mara nodded. “They’ve been keeping her sedated and she’s pretty out of it. But she’s scared. She’s absolutely terrified. I can tell. She starts to fall asleep and then jolts awake and cries out. I tell her over and over that no one can hurt her anymore, that she’s safe, but...she keeps calling out for whoever did this to her to stop. To please not hurt her anymore and Jim can’t stand it. The police aren’t telling us much right now. They just say they are investigating and once they have information to share they will.”

I nodded sympathetically. This was a common refrain I heard from the families of victims of a crime.

“My oldest daughter, Kendall, won’t stop crying and can’t even look at Cora. Can’t even stand to be in the hospital room with her. My family is falling apart, Dr. Gideon.” Mara’s voice cracked. “One minute we’re hosting an overnight for my daughter and her friends and the next Cora is bleeding next to the train tracks.”

“Are the other girls okay?” I asked.

“As far as I know. We ran into Violet’s mom down in the emergency room but she said that Violet was just being treated for shock.” Mara pressed her fingers to her lips. “Oh, God, that sounded terrible,” she said shakily. “I’m glad she’s okay. I really am.”

“Of course,” I said.

“I need to get back to Cora,” Mara said. “But tomorrow? Do you think you might have some time tomorrow to visit with her?”

“Certainly,” I said. “How about I stop by around eight or so?”

“Maybe closer to nine would be better,” Mara suggested and I wondered if perhaps that was a time her husband wouldn’t be around. It’s not a good sign if one parent is open to my services and the other is not, but it’s a start.

“Nine will be perfect,” I assured her. “Try and get some sleep tonight and I’ll see you in the morning.”

I watched Mara walk wearily down the hallway. I’d seen it hundreds, maybe thousands, of times: the unsteady, almost drunken walk of those suddenly in the midst of a life-changing event. Mara’s equilibrium was off, but with time and help and with some luck she’d gather herself up and see to it that her family get through this and whatever else was to come.

No matter how determined I was to leave work at a reasonable time, I got home well after nine o’clock that evening. As usual, the house was dark and quiet. I immediately peeled off my clothes to shower but couldn’t wash away the thoughts of Cora Landry and what happened to her in that train yard. The world was a dangerous place even for a little girl from small-town Iowa.

I stepped from the shower, toweled off and put on my favorite pair of sweatpants and a University of Grayling Wolves sweatshirt. All I wanted to do was go to bed but instead I poured myself a glass of wine, opened my laptop and logged into the hospital’s secured online system. I pulled up Cora Landry’s medical records and learned that Cora was born at the hospital five weeks early. She spent some time in the NICU and made several follow-up visits to the pediatric specialty clinic over the years.

I jumped to the clinic visit just prior to her attack. Eight months earlier she saw one of the docs for a routine checkup and overall Cora appeared healthy. Height and weight measures indicated that Cora was quite a bit smaller than her peers. The physician wrote that Cora conveyed feelings of extreme anxiousness and worry when it came to school and relationships with her peers. When he broached the subject with her parents, they chose to forgo any sort of psychological or pharmaceutical treatment at the time.

The doctor also noted that Cora had a series of scratch marks at various stages of healing on the inside of her forearms. Cora explained that they were from her cat and the doctor suggested an over-the-counter antibiotic ointment.

I closed the laptop and flipped on the television. I scanned the channels in hopes of finding some mindless sitcom but landed on a video of a reporter standing in front of the emergency room of the hospital. The tagline read Urban Legend Main Suspect in Train Yard Attack on Preteens?

I sat up and increased the volume. The reporter spoke into a camera while a flurry of insects buzzed around the bright red emergency room sign above his head. “Two twelve-year-olds are the purported victims of a decades-old urban legend known as Joseph Wither. Sources say that at least two Pitch girls were hospitalized early this morning after a brutal attack at the abandoned Pitch, Iowa, train depot.

“Though police and hospital officials remain mum on the investigation and the condition of the girls, an anonymous source tells KQIC News that at least one of the victims pointed the finger at Joseph Wither.”

“Oh, Jesus,” I murmured and increased the volume on the television.