“No, wait a second. Our elf was cold from riding her bike, so Olivia gave her a teensy knock of booze. I remember because Olivia said, ‘You can have the whiskey if you take off your whiskers.’ And she did. Pretty girl. Looked like she was having fun. I guess I might recognize her, at that.”
“Let me send you the picture. Stay on the line.”
Bonnie’s Facebook and Instagram pages are very much alive, thanks to her mother, and Barbara sends Marie the picture of Bonnie on her bike, wearing a strappy top and white shorts.
“Did you get it?” It can’t be her. It just can’t be.
“Yes, and that’s her. That was our Christmas elf. Why?”
“Thanks, Marie.”
Barbara hangs up, feeling numb. Professor Harris knowing Cary might mean nothing, and Emily Harris knowing and not liking Jorge Castro also might mean nothing. But Bonnie makes three. And if you add in the van…
She almost calls Jerome, then stops. He’ll want to speed up, then he might get pulled over. Like every Black person in the city, Barbara is very aware of what happened to Maleek Dutton when he got pulled over.
What to do?
The answer seems obvious—go to 93 Ridge Road and see if Holly’s there. If not, find out if they know where she is. Maybe the Harrises don’t have anything to do with the disappearances, Barbara can’t think of any reason why they would, old people aren’t serial killers, but she’s sure of one thing: Holly knew what Barbara knows, and she would have gone there.
Barbara isn’t afraid of Roddy and Emily, but there may be someone else involved. Which means taking precautions. She goes to her closet, stands on tiptoe, and moves aside Oingo and Boingo, stuffed bears that used to reside on her bed. She no longer needs them beside her at night to keep her safe from the boogeymonster, but she can’t get rid of them. They are treasured relics.
Behind them is a Nike shoebox. She takes it down and opens it. She couldn’t ask Holly for a gun after the affair of Chet Ondowsky, she would have refused and suggested counseling, so she asked Pete instead, after swearing him to secrecy. He gave her a purse-sized .22 automatic with no argument, and when she offered to pay him for it, he shook his head. “Just don’t shoot yourself with it, Cookie, and don’t shoot anyone else.” He thought that over and added, “Unless they deserve it.”
Barbara doesn’t expect to shoot anyone this afternoon, but threatening isn’t out of the question. She needs to know where Holly is. If the Harrises deny knowledge, and she thinks they’re lying… yes, threatening might be in order. Even if it means jail time.
Barbara thinks, I wouldn’t be the first poet to go to jail.
On the way out she snags an Indians cap from the basket by the front door, puts it on, and stops dead in her tracks. She thinks of Holly’s computer being off instead of asleep. She thinks of the combination lock not set to zero. And then she remembers a woman she passed in the lobby of the Frederick Building, going out as Barbara was going in. The woman was limping, she remembers that. And wearing a billed cap similar to the one Barbara has just put on. The woman’s head was lowered, allowing Barbara to read what was on the front of it: Columbus Clippers.
She doesn’t know if that woman was Emily Harris, but Barbara knows Holly also had a Clippers hat. There are plenty of people in the city wearing Indians lids, and plenty of people wearing Cardinals lids, and quite a few wearing Royals lids. But Clippers hats? Not many. Was that woman, who might or might not have been Emily Harris, on the fifth floor? Did she perhaps have Holly’s keys as well as her hat? Did she turn off the computer after powering it up? Spin the safe’s combination dial? Unlikely, but…
But.
It gnaws at Barbara enough for her to decide she doesn’t want either of the Harrises to see her coming until she’s at their door and ready to hit them with her question: Where is she? Where’s Holly?
She rides her ten-speed to Ridge Road and chains it to the bike rack in the parking lot adjacent to the park playground. She checks her watch and sees it’s ten past five. Barbara walks up the hill past Olivia’s house. She has always liked Holly’s no-nonsense, unsexy cargo pants, so ordered a pair for herself. She’s wearing them now. The .22 is in one of the flap pockets, her phone in the other.
She decides a reconnaissance pass wouldn’t be a bad idea. She tugs down the brim of her cap, lowers her head, and strolls slowly past 93, as if on her way to the college at the top of the hill. She shoots a quick glance to her left and sees something odd: the Harrises’ front door is standing ajar. No one is on the porch, but there’s a table with a large travel mug on it. Even a quick glance is enough for Barbara to recognize the Starbucks logo.
She goes as far as 109, then turns and walks back. This time when she lowers her head she spots something in the gutter that she knows well. It’s a nitrile glove covered with various emojis. She should know it; she gave a box of those gloves to Holly herself, as a joke present.
Barbara calls Pete Huntley, praying that he will answer. He does.
“Hey, Cookie, did you locate her ye—”
“Listen to me, Pete, okay? This is probably nothing and I’m probably going to call you back in five minutes, but if I don’t, call Isabelle Jaynes and tell her to send police to 93 Ridge Road. Tell her to come, too. Have you got that?”
“Why? What happened? Is this about Holly?”
“Tell me the address. Repeat it.”
“93 Ridge Road. But don’t do anything stu—”
“Five minutes. If I don’t call back, call Ms. Jaynes and send five-O.”
She slips her phone back into her left front pocket and takes the gun out of her right pocket. Is it loaded? She never checked, but she remembers Pete telling her that an unloaded gun isn’t very useful if you wake up and find a prowler in your house. It feels heavy enough to be loaded.
She goes up the porch steps, puts the gun behind her back, and rings the bell. With the door ajar she hears its double tone quite clearly, but no one comes. She rings again. “Hello? Anyone home? Professor Harris? Emily?”
She hears something, very faint. It could be a voice; it could be someone’s radio playing loud through an open window on the next block. Barbara knocks, and her fist pushes the door wider. She’s looking down the wood-paneled front hall. Gloomy. Did she think that on her previous visit? She can’t remember. What she does remember is that it smelled stuffy, somehow. And the tea was awful.
“Hello, is anyone home?”
Yes, she hears a voice, all right. Very faint. No way to tell what it’s saying, or possibly shouting. Barbara hesitates on the porch, thinking Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly.
She peeks behind the door. Sees no one hiding there. Biting her lip, sweat trickling down the back of her neck, the little automatic now held stiffly at her side but with her finger outside the trigger guard as Pete instructed her, Barbara ventures down the hall to the living room.
“Hello? Hello?”
Now she hears the voice better. It’s still muffled, and hoarse, but she thinks it’s Holly. She could be wrong about that, but there’s no doubt about what it’s saying: “Help! Help me!”
Barbara runs into the kitchen and sees a door on the far side of the refrigerator standing open. There’s a padlock hanging from the hasp. She sees steps leading down to a basement and something at the bottom. She tells herself it can’t be what it looks like, already knowing it is.
“Holly? Holly!”
“Down here!” Her voice is a broken croak. “Down here!”