Something About Sophie (18 page)

“Jesus, Billy.”

“Well, he wasn't a saint. And shit happens, you know. It could have been anything. But it would be an
event
not a statistic. See what I'm saying? It was a real place to start looking . . . that might lead to something else . . . that might lead to who you are.”

“I'm Sophie Shepard.”

“Yeah. Well, you're someone else, too.”

He pulled a folded piece of white paper from his pocket and held it between them. She stared at it—numb. Somewhere in the back of her mind she was repeating over and over, that she was Sophia Amelia Shepard, the best gift a daddy could ever dream of. . . . No piece of paper could change who she was—and yet just hours ago she'd seen the papers that had done just that: changed who she was. No. She was Sophia Amelia Shepard, the best gift—

“Since you were adopted in Charlottesville, I started there in the main library with the microfilm archives from
The Daily Progress
. Obituaries, headlines, some regional stuff—anything where a kid could be orphaned or left somewhere . . . or put in foster care for one reason or another.”

“I wasn't in foster care. The lawyer said.” She heard a muffled echo in her voice like she was speaking from the inside of a fish bowl. “Special circumstances. She had a guardian.”

“See? Sure. I knew it had to be something out of the ordinary. At first I didn't think I'd find anything because all the newspapers around here are sort of connected and print a lot of the same stories except for small sections for the highlights of local news, you know? I spent the whole day over there. Nothing. So I figured I hit another dead end. But then this morning”—he shuffled his weight, as anxious and impatient as he was hesitant and worried—“this morning I started to wonder if maybe whatever happened wasn't a big enough story for the
Progress
. Or what if one of the smaller papers around here hadn't been bought out back then—and even if it had, the local papers always go into more depth on a story. Probably to take up more space since nothing ever happens but—” He shrugged. “Hell, who knows. But I figured it couldn't hurt to look, so I went over to the Staunton library to check out
The News Leader
first before I headed over to Waynesboro for
The News Virginian
.” He looked between her face and the paper in his hand twice. It was a long tense moment before he spoke again. “It was a headline. November 12, 1985.”

She looked into his eyes—so unlike Drew's but still aware and empathetic. He wouldn't force her to look at it; wouldn't judge her if she chose not to. His steady gaze said: he found the information and the rest was up to her.

But that wasn't what she was saying to herself. Deep in her core, she knew there was no choice. She could flee now, but the facts on Billy's sheet of paper would chase her forever—plague her sleep and change her life whether she read it or not.

She filled her cheeks with air and blew it out slowly through pursed lips, then held out a hand that was clammy and trembling. The muscles in her chest contracted painfully and it was hard to breathe.

There were actually two pages. The first opened to old black-and-white newsprint and a 3 x 4-inch picture of a happy girl with a lovely bright smile. Though she hadn't had the privilege of braces to correct a slightly displaced lateral incisor, it was also Sophie's smile . . . set in a more heart-shaped face than Sophie's oval. The bridge of her nose was thinner, and while her eyes appeared to be paler, the shape of them and her eyebrows were also the same. Most shocking of all, however, was the thick, wild, curly hair that Sophie didn't need Kodachrome to know was a deep burnt-orange color.

Immediately, her eyes lowered to the story.

CLEARFIELD POLICE SEARCH FOR MISSING GIRL, 16

Lonora Elizabeth Campbell went missing from her home.

Clearfield authorities have been combing the city and surrounding area since late Thursday in search of a 16-year-old girl who went missing from her home earlier in the evening. The disappearance of Lonora Elizabeth Campbell is being termed “suspicious” by police, who say they know the girl quite well and that while she has developmental disabilities and is known to have wandered off before, “she never goes far and she stays out in the open because enclosed spaces frighten her.” The girl's father, Lonny Campbell, discovered her missing at 6:15 yesterday. He reported her disappearance 30 minutes later after searching the neighborhood in vain. Between 75 and 100 rescuers searched through the night and more volunteers have arrived to continue the search today. Lonora is 5'3" 110 lbs. She has blue eyes and red hair. Anyone with any information about the girl is asked to call the sheriff's office immediately.

“She'll be terrified when we find her,” Sheriff Charlie Barton said. “If someone she doesn't know finds her they should call for help before they approach her. That'll only make it worse.” No sign of forced entry was observed in the family home.

Sophie heard an odd whirring noise inside her head. Lonny's Lonora was her birth mother? She had to be, they looked too much alike. She turned back toward the hospital and looked up at the windows on the second floor. What was it Lonny said about his daughter?
She was a pretty little girl. Like her mama. Like you.

Lonny was her grandfather! But only a part of her jerked with the thrill of knowing it.

He knew? Why didn't he tell her? He'd dropped hints.
You remind me a bit of my baby girl 'cept she had my wife's blue eyes and she weren't near as tall as you. But she was a happy gal growin' up and that smile-a-yours is a real sweet reminder.
He did tell her . . . without really telling her. But why? Why didn't he want her to know?

Her heart hammered, but she couldn't tell if it was raging anger or an anxious excitement surging through her veins, making her want to hit something and hug Billy at the same time.

“Sophie?”

She shook her head—she didn't want to talk and she couldn't look at him just yet. She bent her head and brought the second page forward to read—a shorter story in smaller print.

MISSING CLEARFIELD GIRL FOUND

Sheriff Charlie Barton reported Friday evening that 16-year-old Lonora Elizabeth Campbell was found dazed and disoriented in the woods around Calvin B. Harvey Park and Arboretum after a 28-hour search by local citizens and the Clearfield County Police. The girl was rushed to Clearfield Memorial Hospital to be treated for an array of cuts and bruises and the hypothermia sustained during her overnight ordeal. She is reported to be in stable condition.

Lonora. Lost and then found as a girl. Lost and now found by her daughter years later—years too late. And now Sophie felt lost—her gaze rose to the windows above—and there was plenty more information to be found up there, she knew. But she wasn't sure she wanted to hear more—wasn't sure she knew what to do with what she had.

“Sophie?”

“I don't know, Billy.” She took a step back, opened her car door, and threw her hobo bag inside. “I don't know what it means or what I should think. I need to think about it. I don't want to say or do anything I'll regret—”

“Sophie!”

She turned her head to address the demand in his voice, unprepared to see the helplessness and horror in his face as a large man, two to three inches taller and a hundred pounds heavier, held a big black gun to Billy's head from behind. She froze. It felt like the slightest movement, a bare breeze, would cause the whole world to explode.

Chapter Twelve

T
he man with the gun had a crew cut–type haircut that showed him to be mostly gray haired; he had a pink pudgy sort of face and he wore thick horn-rimmed glasses. He squinted at Sophie—angry, bitter, and unforgiving. He delivered a scoffing chuckle.

“I thought that damned Maury finally pickled his brain about you coming back here to kill us.”

“Me?”

“Course he couldn't go to the cops after ya got to Cliff, but he didn't have to make a beeline over to my place so you could follow him straight to me.”

“Got to Cliff?”

He wrapped a wad of Billy's blond hair around his hand and dug his fingers into the back of his head to keep it tight, pulling him sideways and tipping his head at her to pass in front of them. She did, her gaze unwavering. The man pushed his hostage a step closer to her, she backed away and he took another step forward. They were heading for the back of her vehicle.

“All you had to do was wait out the cops.” She couldn't tell if Billy had done something or not, but the man gave his hair a sharp jerk that made him grimace. Her clammy hands trembled. “They'd pull out eventually, you knew that, and you'd have an open shot at me. Figured I'd strike first—you weren't expectin' that, now were ya?”

“Me? Look, I think you've made a mistake. I don't even know who you—” She made eye contact with Billy as her voice trailed off.

The man peaked an eyebrow. “Finish.”

“I—I was going to say I didn't know who you are but . . . now I'm guessing you're Frank Lanyard.” If she was the hub of the wheel, then he was the missing spoke.

He pursed his lips and motioned with his head for her to turn the other corner of her car to the rider's side. “You're smarter than her anyway.”

“Who?” Keep him talking, distracted—wasn't that one of the safety tips? “Her who? Did you . . . Is Maury Weims dead?”

“That ain't gonna work on me, sweetheart. Can't blame me for this here, what's going on. This time it's your fault.”

“My fault?”

“Stop repeatin' what I say and actin' like it's a question, pretendin' you don't know what I'm talkin' about.”

“I'm not pretending. What
are
you saying?”

“Open the door.” She followed his line of vision to the rider's side front door. It did occur to her to pull it open in such a way as to position it between her and him, to take another shot at running for help . . . but he had Billy. “Now the other.”

Opening the back door put her in a makeshift cage of sorts, trapping her between the front door, the car next to them, and the off chance of freedom if she chose scrambling over the seats to the opposite door without getting shot. She stuffed the photocopies under the seat to free her hands.

Frustrated, she went back to distraction. “Please. Tell me what this is about?”

“You.” And with that he took a vicious strike at Billy's head with the heavy dark metal in his hand.

“No!” She cried out as the life in Billy's eyes left and his thin body crumpled. “Oh God! Billy!” A flash flood of blood rivered down over his eye and cheek, angling toward his mouth as his head lolled to the left. “Billy. You killed him?” Instinctively she pushed against the door, tipping him and Billy off balance—but only for a second or two. “He's bleeding. Are you crazy?”

“Shut up! And you better think twice about giving me any more grief, girl. I'm up to my neck in this mess, so it makes no difference to me. I can drop him here and put a bullet in his head—up to you,” he said as he began to first tip Billy onto the backseat and then shove him in completely. “See? Still breathin'.” His smirk was spine chilling. “This here's a McCarren?”

Sophie nodded.

“You best be careful. His mama'll skin you alive if you get him killed, missy.”

Elizabeth was waiting.

“Hop in. You're driving.”

“Where to? Where are we going?”

Hope gasped its second breath. If they drove by the Crabapple Café there was a chance, a slim one, that Elizabeth might be watching out the window for her. If not, Drew will show up at the café to rescue her from his mother . . . and call to check on her.

Shoot.

With the gun now pointed in her general direction from outside the back door, she did all she could to make it look more awkward than it was to climb over the center console to the driver's seat. She glanced back at Billy, lying on his side, bleeding on her soft gray pleather interior, breathing. Slipping her hand inside her roomy handbag, she said, “Please. Billy needs help. Can't we leave him on the hood of that car so someone will find him?”

“And wake him up so he can set the cops on us? I don't think so. What's that you're doin'?”

“Nothing. Moving my purse out of the way.” She slid into the driver's seat.

“Hell.” He slammed the back door closed against the bottoms of Billy's feet, bending his legs at the knee. “Give me that damn thing.” Grabbing her bag, he flung it at the back window of the Jeep, spilling the contents in a short, noisy clatter.

Turning to look back at Billy again, while Frank Lanyard climbed in next to her, was the perfect opportunity to stuff her cell phone under her left hip, which would, hopefully, muffle any rings, dings, or pings that might occur if Drew tried to contact her. It might take a while for him to get nervous when there's no response, but once he was, the cops were going to need her phone on and in one piece to track the GPS inside.

“What are you waiting for?”

“Directions,” she snapped.

Instantly, fear stomped down hard on the anger creeping in around the edges of her emotions. One clever move with a cell phone did not an escape artist make. She and Billy had a long way to go . . . if they were lucky . . . and keeping a civil tongue in her head would, no doubt, be helpful.

“Which way out of the lot,” she asked, trying on submissive and finding it itchy. “Right or left?”

“Right.”

“Fine.” Glancing back at Billy as she twisted the key in the ignition, she couldn't see his face, only the passive in and out of his torso as he slept. The fist in her stomach tightened and turned. It was in her to cry, but there were no tears as yet. She swallowed, but the back of her throat felt stuffed with cotton as she pulled out of the parking lot.

In the few blocks it took to get to Main Street, she went through every scenario she could come up with: speeding, a deliberate accident, jamming on the brakes and leaping from the car while in motion—maybe a daring combination of moves. But every idea produced a red flag: Billy . . . or telegraphing the move by releasing the seat belt . . . or accidental discharge of the gun and the consequences for failure. It wasn't looking good.

They were parked at the stop sign, next to Lonny's place, when he jerked the gun, now aimed in the neighborhood of her liver, indicating a left turn at Main. Looking both ways to make a safe crossing, she noticed her passenger staring at the Service and Tire—hard—a spastic tic in his cheek going wild. Was he angry he hadn't managed to kill Lonny, too?

Her grandfather. The idea of it felt like a size fourteen dress on a size two body—too big and shapeless and yet—
He tried to kill my grandfather, too?

With even more determination, she solidified her plan to give Elizabeth her one best split second of seeing them as they drove by the Crabapple Café. Seeing, realizing something was wrong when she doesn't stop, and calling for help. It was all she had.

O
dd, the things you think about while you're driving toward death.

For instance, it made sense to Sophie that with a lethal weapon so nearby, one's awareness of something as small as a leg itch would be suspended for more important considerations . . . like the way a gunshot face would ruin her open casket funeral.

Problem was: she needed an itch at the moment.

Another thing? Frank Lanyard and his gun weren't as intimidating in a moving vehicle; he wasn't going to shoot her while she was driving, right?

So Sophie dropped her left hand to rub her knee and then put it back on the wheel as she started counting . . . Eddy's Eatery, Granny's Attic. She scratched below her knee, then put her hands back to ten and two on the wheel. They passed Lemming's Plumbing and poor Maury Weims's drugstore—she tilted a bit to scratch lower on her leg—Betty's Boutique and Clearfield Credit Union . . . and she shivered watching the big window front of the Crabapple Café coming up. She asked her mother for help.

Amazed at her perfect timing, she bent low, close to the steering wheel, reached for her ankle, turned her face toward the café and pretended to lean unintentionally on the horn.

Her smug delight lasted barely two seconds before Lanyard's gun crashed down on her right shoulder—she went blind from the pain, and the screaming cry she produced was unlike anything she'd heard before.

She ground her teeth to the shatter point against the intense throbbing, then glared at her captor.

“It was an accident!”

“Like hell.” He kept looking back to see if she'd disturbed the evening quiet of Clearfield.

One glance in her rearview mirror and doom settled inside her. She was going to die.

And was this the reason her real mother had suffered so, clung to life with all her might and oh-so reluctantly let go? To be on the other side to greet her daughter a year later, like Lonny said? She was torn between intense relief and the utter unfairness of it . . . and guilt. If Lonny was right, her mother—her
real
mother—paid the ultimate price in the most excruciating way for simply taking her into her heart as an infant and loving her. Her heart felt shredded. The pain blotted out the discomfort in her shoulder.

They were far enough outside town that there were fewer and fewer places to pull over or turn around, so when she spotted a deserted exit for a gravel county road, she took it.

“What the hell do you think you're doing?” Frank bellowed in tense disbelief. “Keep to the road. Drive on.”

“No.”
Flint. Flint!
“I'm— We're going to lay Billy right here, out of the way but close enough to the road to be seen.”

“The hell we are.”

“He needs help and this isn't a discussion.” She may have been out of her mind at the moment, but it wasn't
all
gone. She went silent when the big black gun pressed against her forehead.

“Maybe you are as crazy as she was.”

“Who?” she whispered, then realized she didn't care anymore. It was about survival now and she had a better chance of it . . . they both had a better chance if Billy wasn't with them. “Billy hasn't done anything. Your beef is clearly with me. I'll go with you. Quietly. If we leave Billy here.”

He shook his head, bent his elbow to tip the gun toward the roof. “Let me explain this to ya. You don't get a say. You and old Cubeck made your choices. You two started all this. Now it's my turn. And I choose for you to disappear so you can't do to me what you did to my old buddies. This is self-defense.”

“Disappear or die?” His shrug was indifferent. She sneered. “Self-defense. If this was self-defense, you wouldn't be keeping Billy hostage. And you'd be out in the open, defending yourself for everyone to see. Not scurrying off to . . . wherever we're scurrying off to, like the filthy rodent you are.” She'd started out calm but ended up a little insane again. “I never even met Arthur Cubeck. And I didn't do anything to your buddies!”

He puckered his lips up and tipped his head thoughtfully. With no change in his expression he simply lowered the barrel of his gun over the back of her seat at Billy. Hope waned. Stupid. She'd tipped her hand and he saw that she cared about Billy's life.

Not that she cared
more
about Billy's life than her own—she was no martyr—but she cared enough that he was leverage.

“Here's what I'll do for ya, honey.” His voice was thick with disdain. He drew a large, crumpled white handkerchief from his back pocket—clean or not, that remained a question mark. “You tie his hands up with this. Take your shirt off and cover his face with it. He don't see me, he lives.”

“If he doesn't bleed to death, you mean.” Her mind flashed back to the three of them in the hospital parking lot. Billy couldn't have seen him with that grip in his hair . . . but he'd tried and Lanyard jerked at the roots.

She looked through his glasses into callous brown eyes and suspected he was lying about letting Billy live, but she couldn't take the chance. It might be the only chance Billy had.

Plus, it was
time
. Time for Drew to discover her gone. Time to think of another plan for escape. Time for the cops to find them. More time to live. Maybe even time for Lanyard to come to his senses, change his mind—but she wasn't feeling that lucky.

“Fine.” She retrieved her phone while snatching the rag from his hand, refusing to think about what it had been used for, and jerked on the door handle to get out. Once again she felt the urge to run as she tucked the cell into the back pocket of her denim skirt—but she still couldn't picture herself being faster than a speeding bullet.

Opening the back door, it was Billy's pallor that jumped out at her first, sending a cold chill to the tips of her fingers and toes. She shivered, muttered something incoherent as she reached out to touch his cheek. Warm. There was a strong pulse in his neck and an easy rhythm to his breathing. A slight thaw came as she noted the dry blood cracking on his face and the dark clot congealing in his matted hair.

She heard a car coming up the road and froze. Was Lanyard crazy enough to kill her with a witness? Her gaze shifted toward him. He peaked his brows as if to ask her the same question and made a point of stabbing Billy's ribs with the barrel of his gun. Something evil and dark seeped like black extra-heavy crude oil into the crevices between her fear and her anger; and though she'd had no experience with it until this moment, she recognized it immediately: pure hatred.