Birthday Girl Read online

  Hi, my name is Amy Scowcroft. I’m sorry to bother you, but do you have a second?

  For what, exactly?

  Do you happen to know anything about Danny Neumann?

  Oh. Are you a friend of Faith’s?

  No, I’m afraid not, though she and I might have something in common . . .

  Once the preliminaries were over and social challenges met, he lost the thread; he wasn’t psychic. But whatever it was that Gary Neumann hadn’t wanted the two of them to know seemed to be the only thing the neighbor wanted to talk about. Arms crossed, nodding at something Amy said, gesturing and nodding again, she was the very picture of interest. She maintained a half turn, however, keeping her back to the Neumann house. The two spoke for a long time and were wrapping up when he caught motion out of the corner of his eye.

  Gary Neumann had emerged from his house. Perched on the end of his porch, as though he’d hit an invisible wall, he had to lean to see into his neighbor’s yard. He watched the two women for a moment, then yelled something obscene. Even from inside the car, it was easy to see the man’s face purpling. Elliott sat up and put his hand on the door handle.

  Amy and the neighbor, unaware that Neumann had come out of his house, jumped at the first string of expletives. Without bothering to face him, however, the neighbor turned and walked back to her house, ignoring the shouted insults. When she reached her porch, she paused long enough to wave goodbye to Amy, then went inside.

  A little slower on the uptake, Amy was subject to Neumann’s abuse as she returned to her car. She’d almost reached it when Neumann started down the brick walk toward her. Elliott yanked the handle down and stepped out of the car, staring at Neumann, who froze in his tracks.

  “Why don’t we get out of here,” he said to Amy quietly as she came near.

  “Glad to,” Amy said, brushing past him and getting in from the passenger’s side.

  Elliott stared down Neumann, who veered from insults to threats, assuring them the cops would be pulling them over before they left the neighborhood, though he didn’t take another step toward them. Elliott held the man’s glare, saying nothing, as he crouched and reclaimed the passenger’s seat.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  The Celica caught on the second try. Amy hauled hard on the wheel to make a screeching U-turn in the middle of the lane, then sped off.

  20

  Charlotte

  After the pounding on the door and the yelling came the crying, which lasted much of the night. They all heard it, coming from the last room down the hall. From time to time, Sister cried—long, guttural weeping that came more from the stomach than the throat—but this was higher pitched, the tears of a child. All of them knew better than to leave their beds to investigate.

  The sound was frightening and sad, reminding them of their own first nights in the house. None of them were strangers to fear and hard times, but the first night at Sister’s was another magnitude entirely, when you realized just how different and isolated your new life was to become. Maggie crawled into bed with Charlotte until they both fell asleep, their arms around one another.

  The next morning, Sister went from room to room to tell them to stay in bed and not to move until she called for them. Charlotte and Maggie obeyed, not even daring to whisper, though Charlotte fidgeted the entire time, silently terrified that the pains in her stomach would come back, leaving her with no chance to run to the bathroom. But, to her relief, nothing happened and eventually Sister rang the little brass bell in the hall, summoning them. They slid out of bed, pulled their clothes on, and joined the other two in the hall already there, anxiety plain on all their faces.

  “We’d better go,” Charlotte whispered, then led the others down the stairs, holding Maggie’s and Buddy’s hands like Charlie had when they were scared. Treads popped and cracked underfoot no matter how lightly they stepped. They froze when they heard Sister’s low murmur come from across the house, then Tina poked Buddy in the back. One by one, they filed down the hall and into the kitchen.

  Sister sat at the head of the farmhouse table, hands folded, studying them as they entered. To her right was a boy—gawky, pale, and tall, with a shock of red hair that pointed straight up from his head. There was a livid, kidney-shaped mark on the right side of his face, and the skin around his nostrils and mouth was raw. His eyes, likewise rimmed in scarlet, were locked on the plate in front of him where an open-faced butter sandwich lay untouched.

  They filed into the room and took their assigned seats. Charlotte’s was next to the new boy, Maggie and Buddy across from them, and Tina at the foot of the table facing Sister. She forced herself to stare at the table and not look to her left. Even so, she could tell the boy’s ill-fitting clothes were just like theirs—musty, patched, and fraying—but Charlotte’s nose twitched at how . . . new he smelled. The heady perfume of shampoo swept down from his hair, intoxicating and fresh. She’d forgotten what real soap smelled like, since Sister made them all share one cheap bar that smelled like cardboard. And when that melted away, they had to make do with nothing but water for weeks until she gave them a new one.

  “Good morning, everyone,” Sister said as they settled into place. At the look on her face, Charlotte felt her belly turn fluid and loose. She dropped her eyes.

  “Good morning, Sister,” they said in ragged whispers.

  “Now, bow your heads,” Sister said in a sweet voice, then led them in a quick prayer. When she’d finished, Buddy reached for the long bag of generic bread in the middle of the table, but a word from Sister stopped him.

  “We have introductions to do first.” She gestured to her left. “We’ll start here.”

  “Buddy.”

  “I’m Maggie.”

  “Tina.”

  “Charlotte.”

  Still staring at the table, the boy made no move that he understood. Charlotte’s heart started to pound.

  Sister leaned toward the new boy. She was smiling, but it was a bare twitch of her lips over her teeth. “And what do we say at breakfast?”

  The boy said nothing. Charlotte stole a glance at Buddy, whose face was wrinkled in fear.

  The smile dropped from Sister’s face. “What do we say at breakfast?”

  The boy whispered something inaudible.

  Sister’s face twisted. “What do we say at breakfast?”

  “Good morning.” The boy’s voice cracked as he spoke.

  A flat silence followed. Sister looked from face to face. “Well? Aren’t any of you going to greet your brother?”

  As one, they intoned, “Good morning, Charlie.”

  21

  Amy

  Amy shifted to get comfortable in the cheap plastic seat, feeling like she was sitting on the worst ride at a carnival. Holding the french fry like a specimen, she carefully examined each side before nibbling the crispy sides, then eating the exposed white flesh of the potato. Across from her, Elliott savored the cheeseburger that made up the largest portion of the Happy Meal they’d found the money to split.

  “You were right.”

  Elliott wiped a lick of mustard from the corner of his mouth. “About what?”

  “The neighbor, Kathy. She wanted to talk.”

  “Hmm hmmm.”

  “She said we could’ve saved the knock on his door if we hadn’t just missed the recycling pickup.”

  “Empty bottles?”

  “A fifth every two days, sometimes every day.” She fiddled with the cheap plastic toy that had come with the meal, a purple worm with orange antennae. “How’d you know?”

  “I’ve met a lot of drunks in my life,” he said curtly. “Is the wife—Faith—still there?”

  “No.”

  “Was he violent? Abusive?”

  “Kathy didn’t think so, but said everyone knew the drinking was catching up with him. Drunk by noon, couldn’t get into work most days, that kind of thing.”

  “Did Faith leave him for it?”

  “Not at first, but someone repor
ted them as neglectful parents, and I guess the family got hauled into court for a hearing. They elected not to pursue the case.”

  His face was pinched. “That wasn’t enough of a wake-up call?”

  “Apparently not.”

  “Until Danny went missing,” Elliott guessed, then held the burger out, offering her half. Amy shook her head.

  “The neighborhood turned out to look for him. Held a vigil. The whole nine yards. They thought he’d been kidnapped—which is why you don’t see any kids playing on the street, she said—but they had no luck and eventually the search was called off.”

  “Then the body turned up?”

  “About two years later.”

  “That’s right.” Elliott said, frowning. “It’s not been the case for all the victims, but several have turned up about two years on. Which means they’ve safely passed at least one birthday. Why?”

  Amy chewed on a fingernail. “Kids change a lot in two years. Especially at Danny’s age.”

  “So they reach some kind of threshold?” Elliott said, almost to himself. He shook his head as if to clear it. “What else did Kathy say?”

  “The police reopened the investigation, and it came out that Danny had written a note blaming his father and the alcoholism for a lot of things that were going wrong in the family.”

  “Neumann hid the note?”

  “Yes.”

  “Jesus. He let everyone think his son had been kidnapped?”

  Amy nodded. “The neighbors turned against him. Faith left him not long after.”

  Elliott was quiet for a minute. “Danny wasn’t abducted, he was a runaway. Yet he still fits the profile of these other kids who were killed on their birthdays.”

  “Maybe it’s just a terrible coincidence.”

  “What’s bothering you? Besides the obvious.”

  Amy nudged the worm along the table. The antennae wiggled as it moved. “The obvious. It’s not a happy story.”

  “Wife gone, son dead, no community. Saddled with a lifelong addiction. What’s not to love?”

  “It’s sad.”

  “Some people would say he got what he deserved.”

  “No one deserves that.” Her voice was husky.

  He looked at her for a moment. “No. No they don’t.”

  Amy picked up three fries, dabbed them into a puddle of ketchup, and set to nibbling them, asking between bites, “So, does this help us?”

  “It’s another data point. But it’s still not much to build on. The one connection we have is two broken homes.” His voice turned bitter. “Broken, in part, because of two weak-willed and flawed men leading the way.”

  Amy gave a weak smile. “That can’t be our only lead, or we’ll be knocking on half the doors in the country.”

  Elliott bit into the burger, chewing thoughtfully. “Do you have the database with you?”

  “Yep.” She leaned out of the booth and pulled the thick binder from a plastic grocery bag. She dropped it with a thump onto the little table they were sharing, then looked at him expectantly.

  “I know these are summaries, but check the coroner’s reports for the kids on our list. Tell me what they say.”

  “Okay.” Amy riffled through the papers. “Tammy Waters died of exposure. Danny Neumann died of an overdose.”

  “What drug?”

  “Fentanyl.”

  “Signs of sexual assault? Janine said no, but what’s the coroner say?”

  Amy’s lips pressed together, but she ran her finger down the report summaries. “No.” When Elliott didn’t speak, she said, “That’s a good thing.”

  “Of course.”

  She looked at him sharply. “But not normal.”

  He hesitated. “No. Not in cases of juvenile abduction.”

  “Should we be paying attention to that?”

  “Anything unusual is definitely worth remembering.” He put the burger down and wiped his hands on a napkin. “Can I see that?”

  She slid the binder across the table and watched as he skimmed the six cases in succession. He tilted his head in concentration, then shook it in frustration before pushing it back to her.

  “What were you looking for?”

  “It’s not important.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  His face flashed annoyance; then he composed himself. “Sexual predation would be the first thing you’d expect but not the only thing. Certain psychological obsessions manifest in different ways, so I was looking for physical trauma besides the cause of death.”

  “What kind of trauma?”

  “Like if something had been missing.”

  Amy blanched. “You thought the killer might be . . .”

  “Taking trophies,” Elliott said. “Yes. But there’s nothing listed here. I’m relieved, of course, but all it means is our kidnapper has another form of benchmarking his progress. Our job is to figure out what that yardstick is. Who’s next on our list? Maybe that will tell us something.”

  “Eva Collier. She was—” Amy stopped, then began speaking again. “She was twelve when she went missing, would’ve turned fifteen just before her body was found.”

  “Cause of death?”

  “She died of . . . hmm.” Amy’s eyes widened.

  “What?”

  “She died of an overdose, as well.”

  “Fentanyl?” When she nodded, Elliott said softly, “That’s his second mistake.”

  “He’s drugging them,” she said. “Trying to make it look like an overdose.”

  “Be careful. Two instances isn’t a pattern. But . . . yes.”

  “Why use fentanyl?”

  “It’s a snap to acquire, whether from prescriptions or on the street. It comes in various delivery forms. Inhalers, patches, pills, lozenges. There’s even a lollipop, which would be attractive to kids, of course. It’s an opioid, so it’s a sedative. No screaming fits. Overdose victims just slip away.”

  Amy put a hand to her head but said nothing.

  “Were the other kids on our list poisoned this way?” Elliott asked.

  “What? Oh,” she said, then leafed through the database. “One had traces of an unidentified substance. The other three are . . . dang it.”

  “Redacted?”

  She nodded.

  “Thanks, Dave.” He crumpled the hamburger wrapper in frustration. “You have a Ouija board in that bag? Maybe the spirits have what we need to know.”

  She closed the binder. “Seriously, what is it with you? Why won’t you let go and trust something more than what you can see? Don’t you think bigger mysteries exist than what you can put your hands on?”

  “Of course. I was—I am a psychologist. The mind is the biggest mystery in the universe.”

  “But you only trust the mind as far as you can analyze it. Why won’t you believe there’s something more profound than what you can figure out from a textbook or an interview?”

  “I never said there wasn’t.”

  “You don’t have to—it’s written all over your face.”

  He sighed. “Look, it’s nothing about you or what you believe in.”

  “What is it, then?”

  “I have a professional and personal . . . aversion to hippies. And hippielike things.”

  “I am not a hippie!”

  He gave her a look. “You’re a hippie.”

  “Well . . . what’s wrong with that? Where’s the distrust coming from?”

  “It’s inherited.”

  “Lame,” she said, grabbing another fry. “Just because your family hated hippies, you do, too?”

  “When I say inherited,” Elliott growled, “I don’t mean from them. I mean because of them. They were hippies.”

  “And that’s a reason to deny all the varied mysteries of the universe?”

  “Yes.”

  “So narrow-minded, Dr. Nash,” she said primly. “I wouldn’t have expected that from you.”

  “Fine.” He glanced to the side, weighing something, then looked back at her. “
Let me give you an example. Guess what my middle names are.”

  “Names? Plural? How many do you have?”

  “Two.” He arched an eyebrow, waiting. “Remember, hippie parents.”

  She stared back, baffled, until a light came into her eyes, and she put both hands over her mouth to smother a giggle. “You’re kidding.”

  “I kid you not.” He sighed. “My full name is Elliott Crosby Stills Nash.”

  Her crystal peal of laughter seemed to catch him by surprise, and he smiled despite himself. Several tables looked their way when she couldn’t stop. “Oh my gosh, that’s so funny. At least your last name isn’t Young.”

  He snorted and took a sip of soda. The straw made a squeaking noise as he pushed it in. “Small mercies. They met at some kind of wannabe Woodstock a decade after the real thing, and I was put together in the back of a Chevy Nova. They claimed I was named after a long debate, but I’m guessing it’s because CSN was the only eight-track tape in the car.”

  “This was the late seventies, right? You’re lucky. They could’ve been into disco.”

  “Grand Funk Railroad Nash?”

  “Abba Nash.” She had a hard time catching her breath. “Earth Wind and Nash?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Anyway, there you have it, the real reason behind my scientific skepticism. Believe me, I earned it pressing tofu and weaving baskets as a kid.” He squeaked the straw a little more. “Sorry about the crack about the Ouija board. That was unkind. It might not be how I solve problems, but that doesn’t mean you don’t find value in it.”

  Wiping away tears with a paper napkin, Amy said, “What you really mean is, you still think it’s a load of bull.”

  “Of course. But if it makes you feel better, who cares?”

  Reaching across the table, she put her hand over his. He flinched. She looked directly into his eyes. “Thank you, Elliott. I haven’t laughed like that in almost a year.”

  He glanced down at her hand, and she wondered how long it had been since someone touched him. “You won’t hold my prejudices against me?” he said.