Crunch. My steps, taken as gingerly as possible, make the noise of an entire marching band on dead pine straw. I avoid the tire tracks and walk around the side, my steps quickening as I move to the back of the trailer.
The doors are locked, and I knock on the back door—hoping, wishing that for once it will be easy. That Annie will come bounding to the door, put her hand trustingly in mine, we will go skipping out to Jeremy’s truck together—my mind free of murderous thoughts—her innocence intact, spirit unbroken. No one answers the door, so I move to the first window, using my knife to pop the screen, trying to pull up the uncooperative glass.
The third and last window to the trailer is my salvation. It slides up stiffly, dirt in its tracks, and my gut clenches in excitement and anticipation. I place both hands on the sill and heave my body up and into the dark space.
It is dark inside; it smells of emptiness, stale old cigarettes, and wet towels. I know, standing in the empty bedroom, pale green wallpaper peeling off the walls, that the trailer is empty. The structure is too still, too quiet. Still, I move, stepping into a hall, through another bedroom, a bath, living room, and finally a kitchen.
I search the trailer twice, first with careful trepidation, then in desperation, but the minimal furniture makes the task depressingly simple. No one. There is no blood, no signs of a little girl. No Annie.
I sink onto the couch, an orange floral disaster that practically bends in half under my weight. Could I have been wrong? What if I had killed him, and he had been an innocent man? The stress and adrenaline of the last twenty-four hours comes hurtling down on me, hard stones on my fragile sanity, and I sway from the gravity of the situation. A second possibility enters my mind, one I had fought to ignore the entire drive. I might be too late. I stand, looking at the window through which I had entered, facing the fact that I might be leaving empty-handed when my eyes catch on the outbuildings, on the wooden framework that is probably a deer hang.
“It’s actually a pretty cool piece of property—it has a gutting barn and deer hang, as well as a shitload of blinds.”
“So, we’re talking about an isolated location, with no one around for miles, that is designed for killing and disposing of bodies.”
I head for the back door, cursing my stupidity with every step. In another part of Georgia, not too far from me, Ralph Michael Atkins puts on his coat, kisses his wife, and heads for his truck, intentionally leaving his cell phone behind. If eight seasons of CSI had taught him anything, it was that police can track his cell, and he has no intention of leading them to Annie.
CHAPTER 48: Carolyn Thompson
Carolyn Thompson woke up alone in bed, the first time that had happened in over three years. She lay still in a moment of quiet solitude before reality hit and the tears came. She closed her eyes tightly, swallowing sobs and suppressing the emotions that threatened her sanity. She needed to be strong: for Henry, for Annie, and for herself. Annie was still alive. She knew that, needed to believe that. She felt that if Annie had passed, she would feel it. Surely, a mother would know. For now, she prayed that wherever she was, whomever she was with, she was not in pain, and she was not scared.
Once her prayers were over, she rose from the bed and pulled on her bathrobe. Walking down the empty hall to the living room, she paused at the entrance, watching her husband. His neck slumped at an odd angle. He slept in his chair, his hand resting on the phone in hopeful anticipation. She knew without waking him that a call had not come. She moved forward, grabbed a small pillow from the couch and placed it gently underneath his head, moving his neck into a more comfortable position.
She stepped quietly through the kitchen, wanting Henry to sleep as long as possible, prolong his peace. Once she had a cup of coffee in hand, she returned to the bedroom, picked up the corded phone and pressed the buttons for the police station.
Five minutes later, she hung up the phone and made her way back to the living room, cradling the warm coffee cup in both hands. There were no updates. Michael had stayed home all night, and their interest in him was now waning. The most likely scenario was that Annie had been taken out of town, possibly out of state. Calls had come through on the Amber Alert hotline reporting sightings of her as far as six hours north. But the calls always came too late, the police always fifteen minutes behind, the trail cold by the time they arrived. Her hand trembled around the coffee cup, her mind filled with horrific images of the possibilities. If Annie’s abductor was on the run, if they were moving north, maybe that would be better than her locked away somewhere in the dark, alone with a madman.
Michael. Her thoughts focused on the possibility that she had tossed and turned all night over. She had examined every instance of their upbringing, and couldn’t find a hint in those memories of anything sinister. If only she could talk to this girl who had called the hotline. She had pressed John for more information, but he had only repeated the same things over and over. Sexual conversations. Centered on a young girl named Annie. She had told John that it must be a mistake—the girl had referred to him as Ralph, after all. No one referred to Michael by his first name. But John had stayed firm. The girl had provided his address and full name. It was Michael. She watched her husband sleeping, his chest rising and falling in uneasy breaths. He was an extension of her soul, a partner in life, as well as by law. Having him there, beside her, gave her hope that they would make it through this, whatever the outcome. Her thoughts returned to Michael, and she had a sudden thought. She set down her coffee and hurried to the bedroom, shedding her robe and yanking open the dresser drawer. Becky. If anyone would know this about Michael, it would be his wife.