Where the Forest Meets the Stars(18)

A car was coming. No one drove that far down the road unless they were lost. A NO OUTLET  sign at the start of the road prevented most people from mistaking the road for another. Jo strode out front as Egg Man’s white pickup, barely recognizable in the late twilight gloom, rounded the corner. His tires crunched to a stop behind her car, and he turned off the motor. Whatever he had come to say would take some time.
Jo walked out to meet him as he stood out of the truck.
“I heard you come down the road,” he said. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
She kept distance between them. “What’s up?”
He stepped closer. “I think you know what. You’ve dumped the alien on me.”
“I didn’t tell her to go to your house!”
“Why didn’t you take her to the police?”
“Did you?”
He walked nearer, close enough that she scented strong cooking aromas. Whatever he’d had for dinner smelled good enough to make her hungry.
“You should get this light fixed,” he said, looking up at the utility pole.
“It went out two weeks ago, and I decided I like it better dark.”
“It’s not better when some hooligans decide a dark house is an easier target than a lighted one.”
Hooligans. Who used words like that anymore?
He rubbed his hand back and forth over one bearded cheek. “This girl is a real piece of work. You know what she’s doing right now?”
“Reading War and Peace ?”
“Then you know.”
“Know what?”
“How weirdly smart she is.”
“I told you that the day we talked about her.”
“Yeah, but now I’ve seen it up close. My mother thinks she’s really bright, too.”
“Your mother?”
“I take care of her. She’s sick.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, echoing what so many people had said to her.
He nodded.
“Did the alien tell you her name?” Jo asked.
“She calls herself Ursa Major because that’s where she’s from.”
“Same name she gave me. I’m thinking Ursa might be her real name.”
“So do I,” he said. “I looked all over the internet for a missing girl called Ursa.”
Jo moved closer to him. “Did you see that Missing and Exploited Children website?”
“I did,” he said.
“Did you see the picture of the shoes?”
“You saw that, too? How can that be? How is it no one misses that dead boy?”
“Sounds like you’ve been going through the same process I did,” she said.
“At least five times I nearly called the sheriff’s office. But I decided to talk to you first.”
“I have no advice,” she said. “Unless you’re willing to lock her in a room.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Exactly what I said. I called the sheriff the night you and I talked. She didn’t tell you about that?”
“No. What happened?”
“She ran away, like she said she would. The deputy never even saw her.”
“Damn,” he said. “I had a feeling that would happen if I called. What did the deputy say? Did he know of any missing kids?”
“He didn’t. He acted like I was wasting his time. He didn’t say he’d try to find her—even when I told him about the bruises.”
His body visibly tensed. “She has bruises?”
“On her neck, arm, and leg. They’re covered by her clothes.”
“Jesus. Do the bruises look like they’re from abuse?”
“There are finger marks in one of them.”
“Did you tell the cop that?”
“I made it clear I was certain someone had hurt her. But the guy is biased against kids being taken out of their homes. He told me a story about his friend in middle school. The kid was put with abusive foster parents, and he ended up killing himself.”
“He told you not to turn her in?”
“Not exactly. But he said people often take foster kids for the money. He said even if Ursa’s bruises were from abuse, she would lie about how she got them. He said a foster home might be as bad as where she came from, and she would know that.”
“What kind of screwed-up advice is that for a cop to give?”
“Is it?”
“You agree with him?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I haven’t had time to think since I talked to the guy. I had visitors yesterday . . .”
“Ursa told me.”
“You know what I figured out yesterday? I don’t think she’s from around here.”
“Strange that you say that . . . ,” he said.
“Why?”
“I had the same thought today. When I showed her newborn kittens, she went nuts. She said they were a miracle. She’d obviously never seen small kittens, and country kids see lots of them.”
“She had another miracle?”
“Only three to go, she says.”
“Her first miracle was baby birds.”
“She told me,” he said.
“Like you said, a country kid would have seen baby birds at least once by her age. I think she’s from a city and maybe got dumped out of a car.”
“She talks like she’s from around here.”
“Maybe Saint Louis,” Jo said.
“They don’t have that much country twang over there.”
“Paducah?”
“I searched every southern state that might produce that accent, even as far as Florida,” he said. “She isn’t listed as missing.”