Daddy’s Girl
Thursdays were trash days. Elizabeth knew this the same way she knew the library closed at five and the community yard sale was the highlight of the fall. It was all in the letter.
“Dear New Resident,” it began. “Welcome to Harpeth Springs, Illinois, one of the safest cities in America.”
Safe. Would she ever feel safe again? Even in her garage, eight hundred miles from Paul Chandler and the nightmare of the past year, waves of panic rose inside her, ready to swallow her like water over a drowning castaway. A new city, a new address, and she’d yet to venture beyond the threshold of the small, one-story ranch she was now calling her “safe house.”
But she wasn’t safe. She was sequestered. The only way to be safe was to learn to live again — out there. Across the dark room, the garage door waited, outlined in a thin rectangle of light. Cold seeped through and crawled over her bare ankles. Before she lost her nerve, she closed her eyes and pushed the button. She waited a moment, then tried again. Finally, she opened her eyes.
“Come on, come on.” Fear turned to frustration as she struck the pad, first with her finger, then with her fist. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
The door mocked her. Are you sure?
“Yes, I’m sure,” she yelled at the door and the garage full of boxes. “Now open up, you stupid piece –”
With a jolt, the metal door climbed. Elizabeth’s eyes slowly adjusted to the light as she greeted the world for the first time in days. Fresh air brought the scent of memories, memories of a better time, of a safer time.
Inhale. Exhale. This time she would do it. It was time to take out the trash.
The street was mercifully deserted, but the roar of large plastic wheels over driveway gravel made her conspicuous. She walked faster until she reached the end of the eternal driveway.
Please, God, let me make it back inside before anyone sees me.
“Hello?” a voice called from beyond a tall row of yellow hedges.
Elizabeth spun around, ready to flee.
Across the drive, an old man in a straw hat peered around the bushes. “Oh, dear,” he said. “I’ve startled you.”
“No.” It was an obvious lie. What had Dr. Hanks called that? An involuntary defense mechanism? She stepped back. “I just didn’t see you.” She tightened the belt on her housecoat and chided herself.
Get it together.
“Ah, forsaken by forsythia.” He laughed at his own joke. “I heard you rolling your trash can and thought maybe I should come over and introduce myself. I’m Randal Yancey.” His voice was soft but cracked around the edges, like those old love songs on her dad’s antique turntable. He pulled off his glove and offered a plump hand.
“I live next door,” he said, pointing past the overgrown border. “You know, I could trim those for you.”
“What?”
“The bushes. I could trim them if you like.” He held up a pair of pruning shears.
No. She would not like. She would much rather let them grow twelve feet high to keep out nosy old men like Randal whatever-his-name-was or pushy little Girl Scouts or Jehovah’s Witnesses or obsessed psychopaths like Paul Chandler who stalked you at work, broke into your apartment just to watch you sleep, and ultimately tried to kill you. Let those bushes grow! Let them barricade her in a garden of seclusion. Forget safe. Sequestered was just fine with her.
“No, but thanks.” She crossed her arms and backed away.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure,” she said. “Please don’t bother.” She hurried up the driveway and tried to ignore the voice in her head.
He just wants to help. He’s trying to be neighborly.
Well, she did not want help, and she didn’t need neighbors. She wanted to be left alone with her self-reliance and her newly-acquired thick skin.
“Oh, it’s no bother.” He removed his hat. “Honestly, it gives me something to do. It’s pretty quiet around here.”
Is this the new you, Libba? Turning your back on a little old man who is just trying to do you a favor? That’s not thick skin. That’s scar tissue.
She turned around, ashamed. He stood next to her garbage, hat in hand, more Mickey Rooney than Hannibal Lecter. His gentle smile pleaded with her. It was possible, she supposed, that he was sequestered, too. One of those old songs echoed in her mind.
Only the lonely
know why I cry
Besides, there was something else in the man’s eyes, something more than loneliness. She wasn’t sure, but it might have been kindness. And there was that thing Dr. Hanks said about walls. How did it go? She could hide, or she could heal, but she couldn’t do both?
“Okay,” she said.
“I’m sorry?”
“Sure. You could trim them.” She took another deep breath. “That would be nice. Thank you.”
“Wonderful.” His face brightened. “I’ll get right on that, Miss?–?”
New Resident, she almost said. But that was another wall, wasn’t it?
“I’m Elizabeth.”
The man’s smile vanished and his face lost its color. Either he was having a heart attack or he’d just seen a ghost.
“Are you okay?”
“What?” the man said, then seemed to recover. “Yes. I’m fine. Elizabeth, then.” The man bowed slightly and turned to leave.
“Wait.” What she said next went against her every instinct, but she was tired of life behind that wall. “My friends call me Libba.”
#
Randal Yancey was more than kind. He was handy. Not only did he trim the bushes, but he also fixed the garage door opener, reset the garbage disposal, and added an extra outlet in the kitchen for Libba’s new coffee maker and toaster. She could have done these things herself. All it took was one of those DYI degrees from Google U. But it turned out Randal was a terrific listener. The Internet was great at talking. Listening, not so much. It took a few weeks, but Libba was amazed by how good it felt for the walls to come down.
“So, this boy, Paul, is it?”
“That’s right.” Libba handed Randal another cup of coffee and poured herself a glass of white wine. They sat at the table separating the kitchen from the living room. Penultimate rays of afternoon sun poured through the back window and cast the space in a warm glow.
“Can I ask — did he hurt you? Physically, I mean?”
Libba considered how to answer. Some walls might take a little more time.
“Not at first. Just lots of threats. That’s why I filed the restraining order.”
“Is that when he broke in?”
“Yes. But I got lucky. A security guard saw him walk in the building. He got there
before …”
Randal stared into his black coffee. “I think let’s add a deadbolt to that back door tomorrow.”
“Randal, seriously. If you’re not careful, you’re going to work yourself to death.”
“I’m an old man. It has to happen sooner or later.” He shrugged.
As they laughed, Libba thought of her father and how much she missed him. She also decided to call her mother back now that she was settled. Was that what she was? Settled? She liked the sound of that.
“Listen, old man. You’ve got to let me do something for you.”
He waved her off. “It’s nice to take care of someone again.”
“Randal,” Libba said. She walked to the carpeted area that served as her living room and set her wine on her new coffee table, a bargain she discovered at the community yard sale. It really was the highlight of the fall. “Was there a Mrs. Yancey?”
Randal stared out the window as the sun sank below the horizon and darkness had its way. His picked up his hat, which had been resting on his knee, and began working the brim around in his hands.
“There was a Mrs. Yancey,” he said. “Kathryn Kaye Yancey. She was my everything.” The hat fell still. “The feeling was not mutual.”
“Oh, Randal. You don’t have to?–?”
“No. It’s alright. I suppose it’s good to talk about it.” He took a sip of coffee, then set it aside. “Could I trouble you for a glass of water?”
Libba walked to the sink and poured Randal’s water. Sitting down opposite him, she slid the glass across the table.
“Kathryn was beautiful and charming. And witty.” He grinned and held up his hands in surrender. “Her jokes were much better than mine, believe me.” His smile faded. “Anyway, after the baby, she was different, kind of sad all the time. You know?” He lowered his eyes. “One day, she just left.” He drew a deep breath and exhaled with a shudder. “She broke my heart.”
Libba touched his arm. “I’m so sorry.”
“I wanted to take care of her. And I tried. I really did.” His eyes brimmed with tears. “I told her I could change, that I would be whatever she wanted me to be. Just, please, don’t leave me.”
That’s what Paul said too.
“I looked for her. But I never found her.”
“And the baby?”
Randal shook his head. “That’s a story for another time.” He wiped his eyes with a wrinkled hand. “Look at me. I’m a mess. I should be going.” He stood and put on his hat.
“You know,” Libba said. “You remind me of someone.”
“Do I? Who’s that?”
“My father.”
“Is that right?” Randal’s smile made it all the way to his eyes, still red and glassy.
Libba stood and wiped a tear track from Randal’s cheek.
“He always took care of me,” she said. “Did you know he was the only one who called me ‘Elizabeth?’ He said fathers didn’t need pet names, because their love spoke for itself.”
“And he was right.”
“I think if he’d been alive, this stuff with Paul might not have — well, you know.”
“I do.” He cupped her hand in his own. “You watch yourself, Missy. This Paul fellow, he’s bad news. Letting go is hard. It makes men do awful things. But I’m watching out for you.”
Libba hugged Randal and opened the door.
When they stepped onto the porch, Randal said, “Hey. Maybe there is something you can do for me.” He pointed toward his backyard. “See that shed?”
It was only a silhouette in the darkness, but Libba had seen it. He probably kept his tools out there. That reminded her of the small pruning shears, the ones he left behind by the row of yellow bushes.
“It’s full of junk,” Randal said and shrugged. “I’m not very good at letting go either. Want to help me clean it out?”
“Deal. And before I forget–” Libba stepped back inside and returned with the garden shears. “You left these in the yard.”
“Well, I wondered where those things ran off to. I’m always forgetting where I put them.”
“So, tomorrow morning?” Libba asked.
“Roger, Wilco.” They shook on it. “Now, stick a fork in me. I’m done.” He turned around and tapped the door frame with a finger. “After the shed, I’ll see to that deadbolt.”
“Roger, Wilco,” she said in her best old-man voice.
“Goodnight, Elizabeth.”
#
After an old episode of “ER” and one more glass of wine, Libba was done, too. What had Randal said? Stick a fork in me? That man. She washed her face, turned out the light, and fell onto the bed, relaxed and safe.
She was floating on the edge of sleep when something shattered the silence. At first, she couldn’t place it. Then, she knew. The garage door. Libba lay paralyzed by panic. When the motor jolted to a stop, she whimpered.
“Paul?”
She was afraid to open her eyes but helpless not to. Outside, in the window, stood a silent silhouette against malicious moonlight.
He’s here.
Violent memories flashed through her mind — the rage in his eyes as he crashed down on her, the pain of his grip as he ripped her hair from behind. She could not, would not repeat the worst night of her life.
Her mind reeled. How would she escape? There would be no security guard this time.
Randal.
She fumbled for her phone and struggled to focus on his name. She tapped it and brought it to her ear. It rang and rang. No answer. Why hadn’t she listened to her mother and just bought the freakin’ handgun?
She crawled out of bed and into the hallway that led past the garage. She was crying. That was good. That meant she still had her voice. The man at the self-defense class called that her secret weapon. She wasn’t so sure about that, but she would find out soon enough.
Okay, Libba. Calm down. Think.
She stepped through a plan in her mind: (1) throw open the door and turn on the light; (2) shout as loud as she could and catch that psycho freak by surprise; (3) run straight to Randal’s house. She was no track star, but there was nothing like fear to help turn on those jets.
Her heart pounded as she grabbed the knob, threw open the door, and flipped the switch. She screamed so loud her throat hurt instantly. But there was no Paul, just the echo of her secret weapon. She jerked her head back and forth, scanning the room. A trash can, a few boxes she really should get around to unpacking, and one garage door, still closed for business. But she had heard it open. Hadn’t she? And what about the silhouette in window? That was real.
Are you sure?
No. She was not. She was not sure about anything.
Confusion mixed with relief and pulled her to her knees. She sat there trying to make sense of what was quickly trending toward “bad dream.” When she could finally stand, she hurried through the house and flipped on every light. Tomorrow, she would ask Randal to double check his work on the garage door opener. She laid back down, doubtful she could sleep. But eventually, she did, and she dreamed. Dreamed of Paul, of her father, of Randal, and of a little girl crying for her daddy.
#
The sounds that woke her weren’t ominous, but they were curious. And a little familiar. Had she been hearing them in her sleep?
Click. Giggle.
Given the events of last night, this should have unnerved her. But it did not. This was a thought as strange as the sounds themselves. She could only assume she was numb, adrift in the wake of a bad dream. That little pun would have amused Randal to no end.
Click. Giggle.
Okay. Enough. She had to know what that was. As she walked into the kitchen, her foot found it before her eyes did. Bread. It was everywhere. Slices littered the floor and the counter. As she struggled to process the scene, two pieces sprang from the toaster and fell over onto the counter.
Click. Giggle.
Libba’s first thought was of Randal. Had he somehow let himself in and had a stroke while making breakfast? She stood among the mess, confused, and — okay, maybe a little frightened. The bread was one thing, but there was something else. That other sound. It was faint, but unmistakable. The giggle of a little child.
A ring tone broke the silence. Libba left the toaster and hurried back to her room.
“Hello?”
“Morning, glory!” the old man’s voice sang through the speaker. He didn’t sound like he’d had a stroke.
“Evening, star,” she droned. It was another of Randal’s little jokes. He had plenty of them. She hoped she sounded calmer than she felt.
“You up yet? I made breakfast.”
You’re not the only one, she thought. “Sure. But I’m gonna need a few minutes.”
It took her half an hour. She threw the bread in the trash and swept the crumbs from the floor and the counter. Couldn’t have animals trying to–?wait. Was that it? She thought back to the night before. Was it an animal the whole time? A possum, maybe a raccoon?
Raccoons don’t use toasters, Libba. And they definitely don’t giggle.
Still, the thought made her feel better, until she realized a renegade critter might still be lurking in a nearby cabinet.
Broom in hand, Libba carefully opened every door, ready to roust whatever vermin had invaded her safe house. All she found was a stiff mouse caught in a trap the previous owners must have set. That was a scene she could have done without.
Eventually, she gave up. She dressed and headed out the door, but not before turning back and unplugging the toaster.
Randal’s idea of breakfast was Fruit Loops and two percent milk. Was he seventy or seven? Libba asked if he’d ever had problems with animals. Moles were an issue, but that was all. She considered mentioning the garage door opener and the toaster, but decided to keep it to herself. The last thing she wanted was Randal calling the nearest hospital. Better hurry, boys. The new resident is crazy like an outhouse rat.
Instead, Libba followed him to the shed, where decades of memories lay entombed like King Tut’s treasure. As Libba dug through the dusty artifacts, Randal busied himself in the yard. It was better, he suggested, not to see what she was throwing away.
After a morning of uneventful excavation, Libba landed on a small antique trunk trimmed in faded pink flowers. There was no lock, only latches that dangled from disrepair. Intrigued, she sat the trunk on a nearby workbench and opened the lid. Inside, a ceramic doll with long black lashes lay in repose atop a white vinyl photo album.
Libba hesitated for a moment, remembering what Randal had said. A story for another time. She walked to the door of the shed. Randal was across the yard, blissfully occupied with the shape of a man-sized crape myrtle. Returning to the trunk, Libba lifted the sleeping doll and admired its embroidered dress. As she held it up, its weighted blue eyes rolled open and stared back at her with vacant malevolence. Startled, Libba tossed the doll onto the workbench and shivered.
That wasn’t creepy at all.
The photo album, with “Memories” embossed in silver foil across its cover, offered a safer proposition. She opened it to the first page, where an attractive woman, maybe thirty or forty years old, posed for the camera with a face as forlorn as it was beautiful.
“Well, hello, Kathryn Kaye Yancey.”
On the second page, a newspaper clipping rested askew behind the plastic sheeting.
Harpeth Springs Tribune | December 4, 1982
Disappearance of Local Child Still A Mystery
Harpeth County officials remain unable to explain the recent disappearance of Elizabeth Yancey, age 5, of Harpeth Springs. After an extensive search of the area, police have uncovered no clues as to the whereabouts or the fate of the girl, who vanished from her back yard last Wednesday. Elizabeth Yancey is the daughter of Harpeth County resident, Randal Yancey, and his estranged wife Kathryn Yancey, whereabouts also unknown. The father was unavailable for comment prior to reporting. However, Police Chief Scott Taylor says efforts are ongoing and is certain…”
No wonder Randal didn’t want to talk about it. Apparently, Harpeth Springs wasn’t always so safe.
Libba flipped through the rest of the book. Finding nothing but empty, yellowed pages, she set it aside and reached for an old metal box in the bottom of the trunk. A clown smiled at her from the box’s lid, but it was the thin crank on the side that gave it away.
“It’s a Jack-In-The-Box,” she said, lost in wonder. She hadn’t seen one in years. As she pulled it out of the trunk, something fell to the ground. She reached down and picked up a single piece of paper folded into a square. It must have been stuck to the bottom of the box.
Taking her time, she unfolded a fragile page torn from an old, spiral bound notebook. A child’s drawing, in black and red crayon, depicted two people, simple stick figures with over-sized faces. One face bore a jagged mouth and slanted eyes. Angry eyes, Libba thought. The other face was?–what, exactly? Red marks covered the eyes. Dashes or dots or?–?tears. Yes. The second figure was crying. Above the picture two letters, large and haphazard, repeated across the page. The “N” was backward, but as Libba stared at the drawing, the word became eerily legible.
N O N O N O N O N O N O N O
Had Randal seen this? What if it held some clue to what happened? She started for the door, then stopped. Of course, he’d seen it. It was his shed. Besides, she would only be reopening old wounds, probably for no reason. Libba refolded the paper and placed it back in the trunk.
She returned her attention to the Jack-In-The-Box. As a child, she had jumped every time the lid sprang open and that clown popped out. Like dolls with vacant eyes, Libba thought clowns were also kind of creepy. But when you’re a child, you don’t see evil or danger in everything. You still believe. You still trust. She turned the handle, and the familiar plink-plunk melody bounced off the shed walls. Libba sang along from memory.
All around the mulberry bush,
The monkey chased the weasel.
The monkey thought t’was all in good fun.
The lid sprang open, freeing the clown from years of seclusion. That’s when she heard it again, a tiny reprise floating on the dusty silence.
Giggle.
“What are you doing?”
Libba jumped and spun around.
Randal stood in the doorway, face flushed, hair askew, shirt stained with dirt and sweat. In one gloved hand, he held an amputated tree limb. In the other, his prodigal pruning shears. His normally gentle voice surprised Libba with an edge she’d not heard before.
“Randal, look. It’s a Jack-in-the-Box.” She held it up.
But Randal apparently did not want to see. He dropped the limb and pushed the shears into his back pocket. Then he marched forward and snatched the toy from Libba’s hand.
“Give me that!” He threw it into the trunk, and slammed the lid shut.
Libba stepped back. “Randal, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to?–?”
“That’s enough for today,” he barked.
“But Randal.” Libba was devastated. She had clearly crossed a line.
“It’s fine,” he said unconvincingly. He waved her away with the bandana from his shirt pocket before wiping it across his forehead. “We’ll do this later. I’m tired. I want to take a nap.”
Libba walked out of the shed and back to her safe house.
#
Libba had spoken with her mother only twice since she left New York, both times just long enough to say she was okay and would call again soon. She couldn’t risk Paul somehow listening in or, worse, going after her mother to get to her. It was better, safer, to keep communication to a minimum. Her mother hadn’t liked it. But that was how it had to be.
“Illinois,” Libba said. “But let’s leave it at that.” After Randal’s reaction earlier that day in the shed, she was feeling considerably less settled. And last night — animal or not — had spooked her, maybe more than she realized. “I don’t want to take any chances.”
“Chances? Oh, Honey,” Libba’s mother interrupted. “You don’t know, do you?”
“Know what?”
“Libba, that’s why I’ve been calling you. It’s not nice to ignore your mother’s calls.”
“Know what, Mom?”
“Paul’s in prison.”
“Prison? How?”
“You weren’t the only one, dear. I told them they should have locked up that reprobate when he went after you. I don’t care how much bail he posted. That poor girl. Libba, all I keep thinking is what if that had been you.”
“Wait. He’s incarcerated, like, right now? You know this for a fact?”
“Fact? Of course, dear. The paper doesn’t lie. He’s been in for at least two weeks. They said he’s not even eligible for parole until, well, I can’t remember, a long time. Sweetie, he can’t hurt you now. Come home.”
Libba dropped her phone on the bed and sat in silence. Only later, standing in the shower, did she allow the truth to settle in. The hot water was cathartic, washing away fear and paranoia. As it all ran down the drain, Libba replayed the last thing her mother had said. She could go home. How she missed her mom, her friends, her life. Now, she could have it all back.
This afternoon, she would go see Randal and apologize. She’d never seen him so troubled. Then she would tell him the good news. Maybe it would cheer him up. She turned off the water and stepped out of the tub, suddenly glad she’d never unpacked all those boxes in the garage. Bending over, she patted the ends of her hair with the towel and wrapped it around her head. She flipped the towel up, turned toward the mirror, and screamed.
The letters cut across the steam in a child’s scrawl, large and alarming. The “N” was backward.
G O N O W
Terror gripped her. She closed her eyes and opened them again. It was still there. She sank to the tile floor and tried to will it all away. Nothing Dr. Hanks ever said had prepared her for this. She sat in the steam, wanting to get up, wanting to run. But just like the night before, panic had returned and rendered her paralyzed. In the distance, a child’s laughter turned to wails. That’s when the banging began.
It was loud and urgent.
Randal. Thank God.
She pulled her robe from the door and tied it around her damp body. Struggling to find her balance, she made her way down the hall, weaving across the hardwood and leaving wet footprints in her wake. Once in the kitchen, she peered through the blinds. Randal was on the porch. She opened the door just enough to speak.
“Randal. Thank goodness. Something’s going on.”
“Libba, we have to talk.” He started through the door.
She held a hand to his chest. “Wait. I just got out of the shower. Let me get dressed, and I’ll come over. I don’t want to be here right now.”
Despite his size and age, Randal’s frame was solid. He pushed past her easily. “No, Libba. You don’t understand. It’s Paul. He’s here.”
Libba backed away to avoid being hit by the door “Paul? No. Paul’s not here.”
“I didn’t want to tell you this.” Randal was agitated, pacing back and forth. “Last night. I saw him outside.”
“No, Randal.”
“But don’t worry. I chased him away. I kept thinking, what if he got to you.” He stopped in front of Libba and smiled. “But you were okay. I could see you through the bedroom window, sleeping like a baby.”
“Window? Wait. That was you? Why were you –” Libba put her hands up. “Randal. You’re confused. Whatever you saw, it wasn’t Paul. Paul is?–?”
“I can take care of you, Libba.” He gripped her with hands too strong for an old man.
“Randal, you’re scaring me.”
“Don’t be scared.” His face softened. “That’s why I’m here. See? To take care of you.”
Libba pulled her robe tighter. Tears surfaced and reminded her of her secret weapon. But she didn’t need a secret weapon. This was Mickey Rooney.
Are you sure?
“Randal, it’s over. Paul can’t hurt me anymore. I’m safe. That’s what I wanted to tell you. I can finally go back home to New York.”
“No!” Randal shouted. “Paul is here. Listen to me!”
Libba shrank from the outburst. Letters flashed through her mind.
G O N O W
She backed away from Randal. Where was her phone? She couldn’t remember.
Randal leaned over the kitchen table, his breath wet and labored. Over his shoulder, Libba saw the outlet he had installed, for the coffee pot, for the toaster. Wait, the toaster? Pieces of a puzzle floated through her mind and formed a frightening picture. The drawing, the article, the toaster, the box.
Oh, dear God.
The box, the Jack-In-The-Box. It was her the whole time. She was warning me.
“Randal?” Libba’s voice quivered. “What happened to the baby?”
A flash of clarity seemed to fill Randal’s eyes. He dropped his hands and stared into nothingness. For a moment, he appeared apoplectic. But then, he spoke.
“I told her I would take care of her.” He was murmuring almost incoherently. He fell into the chair beside him.
“The baby, Randal. Was Elizabeth the baby?”
Randal stopped murmuring and fixed cold blue eyes on Libba. “But she left. She took her things, and she left me!” He growled this last part. “Left me with a child, with a little girl.” His anger turned to sobs.
“Randal, listen to me. You need to go home now.” Libba suspected she may need more than her voice to get out of this. She began looking around the room for a weapon.
“She looked just like her mother. Same hair. Same eyes.” He wiped an arm across his nose and sniffed. “Do you know what it’s like to get up every day and look at a living, breathing picture of the woman who broke your heart. But I took care of her.” He smiled even as his words grew thick with grief. “Roger, Wilco.” He laughed, sick and sinister. “‘No, Daddy. Don’t Daddy.’ She tried to run away too. So, I took care of her. Yes, I did.”
Chills ran across Libba’s skin.
“I can take care of you, too?–?E L I Z A B E T H.” Even as he spit out her name, lights began to flicker overhead. The coffee pot moaned and wheezed as hot water inexplicably poured from its spout and ran across the counter.
“Randal?” Libba’s tears were flowing freely and getting in the way of her words. “Randal, it’s time to go home.”
“You are home!” Randal leapt from his chair, knocking it back against the cabinets. He ran at Libba with wild fury. Foam flew from his mouth.
Libba turned to flee, but not fast enough. He lurched for her, grabbing her ankle and sending her tumbling. As her body fell into the living room, and her head banged against the end of the coffee table. She lay immobile, ears ringing, room spinning. Randal fell to his knees beside her. He picked up her limp body and cradled her in his arms.
“Elizabeth. Shhh. Daddy will take good care of you. Don’t leave. Don’t leave.” He stroked her hair, now soaked with blood.
The living room reemerged in Libba’s vision, but it wouldn’t stop spinning. Each time she blinked, pain shot across her temples. She felt Randal’s breath, hot and acrid, inches from her face. Overhead, the lights continued to dance.
“All around the mulberry bush,” he sang as he rocked Libba back and forth. “The monkey chased the weasel.” He peeled back her wet hair and touched the lump already swelling on her forehead.
Somewhere, Libba heard a motor roar to life.
The garage door. Atta girl.
Randal looked up, fear and shock transforming his face. “Paul,” he whispered. “It’s Paul, Libba. He’s here. I told you.”
He dropped Libba to the floor with a thud and ran to the hallway. Where was her phone? Her mom. The bedroom. Too far away. Seizing the opportunity, she crawled toward the back door. Could she make it? She had to try, had to keep crawling.
Randal stepped into the garage. He was pushing the button by the door, watching the machine work against him. Repeatedly, he struck the pad on the wall.
“Paul!” he yelled. “You can’t have her. I’m taking care of her now. You hear me, Paul?”
But it wasn’t Paul. Libba understood.
G O N O W
She kept crawling. For a moment, she thought she would make it. Then the hall door slammed shut. She was out of time.
N O N O N O N O
Now, he would kill her, or worse. He fell on her, shoving her onto her back and pinning her arms with his knees. She strained to lift her head, desperate to find something, anything that would give her a way out. There they were, still tucked into the back pocket of his pants. Randal was always forgetting where he put them.
All around the mulberry bush,
He began to sing again, his voice raw and inflamed. He stroked her head with rough, trembling hands.
The monkey chased the weasel.
The monkey thought t’was all in good fun.
The toaster was still unplugged. But it didn’t matter. Right on cue, its handle sprung upward with that familiar metallic click, just like a Jack-In-The-Box. The sound distracted Randal, only for a moment. But it was enough for his weight to shift and for Libba to free her arm. In one desperate motion, she strained forward, reached around him, and pulled the pruning shears free. As he turned back to her, she thrust them upward, hoping, at the very least, to knock him off balance. The tip of the tool landed near the inside corner of Randal Yancey’s right eye and lodged deep in the soft tissue. On impact, he jerked back as if she’d slapped him.
“Hey.” He shook his head, confused. “Stick a fork in me.” He uttered one short, humorless laugh. Then, like the local library at 5:00 PM, Randal Yancey’s lights went out. He fell forward, landing inches from Libba’s face. The impact of his weight drove the shears further into his skull and out his ear. Blood squirted from the wound in two quick bursts.
Heaving from the effort and the shock, Libba freed herself from the dead weight of her attacker. Her head throbbed. Her ears rang.
But somewhere beyond it all, a child sang and squealed with laughter as if surprised by a clown in a toy metal box.
Pop goes the weasel.
The End