CHAPTER 51 MATT

51

Matt

THE CLOTHING SALLY HAD given the girl was far too large; it hung off her frame so loosely that it gave the impression she was shrinking. She watched Matt as he rounded Ellie's cluttered desk and dropped into the chair on the side opposite her.

"Sorry you had to wait so long. It's been a busy morning." Matt forced his tone to remain calm and even; he didn't want to rattle her. He rummaged through Ellie's top drawer, found a bottle of Advil she always kept handy, swallowed two without water, then set the bottle aside. "Why don't we start with your name?"

The girl only stared at him, as if reading him in some way that didn't require words.

The thought he'd had when he first saw her at the diner popped back into his head—she looked ethereal, angelic. He couldn't quite place her age, maybe around sixteen. Best Matt could tell, she wore no makeup, yet her skin was as flawless as a newborn aside from a small birthmark on her neck, under her chin— brown, crescent-shaped. She might be the most beautiful person he'd ever seen.

Prettier than Gabby? Prettier than Addie?

Matt shook that thought away before he allowed himself to answer it, because just having such a thought felt like a betrayal, and there'd been enough of that lately.

Taking out his phone, Matt located the pictures he'd taken of the red Honda out on 112 and slid the phone across the desk to her. "Is that your car?"

She leaned forward, studied the photograph for a moment, then eased back without a word.

Matt didn't need this right now. "Look, I know you can understand me. It's obvious you went through something upsetting this morning, but until you start talking, I don't know how to help you. Do you need to see a doctor? Did someone hurt you?"

The girl shook her head.

"Good. That's good. At least I know you're okay and you speak English. Are you able to talk?"

She scratched her arm, but said nothing, only watched him.

Matt had never encountered a mute before, but he knew they were out there—people who couldn't speak. His gut told him that wasn't what this was. He was fairly certain this girl could talk, but she was choosing not to. He'd play along, for now.

He grabbed a pen and took a sheet of blank paper from the stack next to Ellie's printer, slid both over to her. "Can you write your name for me?"

She shook her head.

"Do you remember your name?"

Hesitation this time, then she shook her head again.

"Do you remember walking into the diner this morning?"

She nodded and scratched at her other arm.

"Good. Okay. Let's start there. Where did you come from? Where were you right before the diner?" He tapped the edge of the paper. "Write it down."

The girl looked down at the pen, concentrated, then let out another sigh before melting back in her chair.

"You don't remember?"

She shook her head.

Matt shivered.

Why was Ellie's office so cold?

The thermostat was out in the main bullpen. Someone must have kicked the air conditioning all the way down. He twisted around and opened a window—it was warmer outside than in the office.

If the temperature bothered the girl, she gave no indication. She only scratched her arms again, this time more vigorously.

"Is that sweatshirt irritating your skin? I can try to find something else."

Both her hands dropped to her side, as if he'd caught her doing something she shouldn't. She shook her head again.

He let it go, tried to focus. "So you don't remember where you were prior to walking into the diner. Let's try something else. What's the earliest thing you do remember?" He tapped the paper again. "Can you write that down or draw a picture or something?"

She rolled the tip of the pen around on the paper, dotting the page with ink. He got the impression she wanted to, was trying, but couldn't remember.

"Do you know why there are people preventing us from leaving town?"

She appeared genuinely confused by that, then resolutely shook her head no .

"You don't know who those people are?"

Again, she shook her head, and Matt saw nothing to indicate she was lying.

"Look, you showed up right when all this started," Matt told her. "I'm willing to chalk that up to bad luck. Came in for the weekend with some friends and didn't get out in time. Wrong place, wrong time. I'm willing to consider that, but there are a bunch of folks in the next room who don't see things that way. They think you're part of whatever is going on. Maybe the cause of it all. While that may be some superstitious nonsense, people are spooked. I don't get the luxury of being spooked. I have to deal in facts. You wandered into the diner in your birthday suit. That means one of two things—either someone did something bad to you and you got away, or you've got something loose upstairs. Now, I'd love nothing more than to put you in my cruiser and take you up to the hospital in North Hollow and let them examine you, but the gunmen out on 112 aren't letting anyone out of town. If you're not with them, that means you're stuck here with the rest of us until help comes. Considering I don't know when that will be, I don't know how long I can protect you, because pretty soon those people in the other room are going to realize the only thing keeping them from you is me, and there are a lot more of them. They're spooked. They're upset. They're getting desperate, and desperate people do desperate things. Stupid things. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

Matt couldn't help but think of Stu Peterson and his friends at the VFW. He could picture them lining up every weapon they could find on a table. Cleaning them, prepping … Guys like that waited for a day like today to come around.

Maybe it was the bright sunlight streaming through the window, or maybe it was the fact that he was staring at her, doing his best to hold eye contact, intimidate her a little, but that pain behind his eye beat back the Advil and came at him with a vengeance. Matt's headache grew worse, and he found it difficult to look at her. When he finally did glance back, she had dropped the pen and was scratching both her arms again.

Matt reached for her wrists. "Let me see what's going on there. We've got cortisone in the med box, if you need it."

She held out her arms and tugged up the sweatshirt sleeves.

Matt let out a soft gasp.

Her arms were covered in writing.

Not just writing, but names. The names of people in town. So many, possibly everyone in town. Several had lines drawn through them—Lynn Tatum, Norman Heaton—others were inflamed, irritated; the source of the itch. It looked like blue ink, but the pen he'd given her wrote only in black.

Matt reached for her wrists. "What the hell is this?"

She tried to pull away, but not before he grabbed her. Electricity shot up his fingertips, through his arms and torso. Matt's body went stiff, and his vision burst in a bloom of white.