There Was a Little Girl Read online

  Eavesdropping is the best entertainment whenever I’m stuck in line somewhere. A glimpse into a stranger’s life. I turn my body slightly to the side to better hear what they are saying. The wide-eyed girl peers into the basket then pulls out a package of hamburger.

  “I’m so glad there’s no need for hunters to kill animals anymore. I mean why, when you can buy hamburger in a package, ready to cook?”

  The blond turns to her redhead friend, a perplexed look on her face. I pretended to read the headlines of the gossip magazines displayed next to the candy. Junk food for the mind and body all in one spot.

  “Uh, how exactly do you think the meat gets in the package?”

  The idealist tilts her head, looking off to the right. I can’t keep the smile from my face when she replies, “From the factory, silly.”

  The blond rolls her eyes with enough attitude to make any tween envious. “Right. But that package was originally a cow. You know, moo moo, frolicking out in the field? Only most of them are in a warehouse, not a pretty meadow.”

  “That’s so sad. I’d die without sunshine. I think cows just go to sleep from a lack of vitamin D and then we buy the meat in the package here at the grocery store. It’s not from a real cow.”

  The blond sighs as if she’s used to her ditzy friend. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing out loud. I’ve never been happier there’s a long line. This is the most entertaining conversation I’ve listened in on in a long time.

  “Not even close. The cows are killed and ground up to make hamburger and other meats. I don’t know, maybe hunting is more humane. At least they kill what they eat. We just come here and buy a shrink-wrapped package. No muss, no fuss.”

  The redhead turns to leave as the blond calls out after her, “Hey, where are you going?”

  “I’m putting this back. If I would’ve known this package of hamburger came from a real cow… I just can’t. Cows are cute. One of my favorite stories as a kid was about a cow named Belle. From here on out, it’s fruit and vegetables for me, baby.”

  “You hate vegetables.”

  “Oh. Right. So fruit and cereal. I love cereal and I don’t have to think about sweet cow eyes looking up at me.”

  “Whatever. I’m grilling a fat, juicy steak tonight.”

  “Miss?” I turn away from the girls and place my items on the belt, a smile stretched wide across my face.

  As the days pass by, I can’t forget what I witnessed on my trip to Wilmington. Every time I close my eyes, the scene plays out over and over again.

  Long morning walks have become the norm for me. I used to be the kind of person who would easily sleep in to eight or nine o’clock if I didn’t have to be up at a certain time. But now, even on workdays when I normally get up at seven, I’m lying in bed, wide awake at four thirty every morning. Might as well be useful. So I get up and walk. With enough miles, I hope the images will leave of their own accord.

  For once the wheels of justice turn quickly. When I first saw the article in the paper, I wrote the man’s name down. Can’t say why, only that I had to know what was going to happen to him. How long he will go to jail for what he did. And a long-buried memory started scratching against a battered and heavily padlocked door in a dusty room in my head.

  Obsessive. It’s how I feel typing his name in the courthouse website multiple times a day, desperate to know what will happen. Typically I go to work, completely focus on my job, then go home and relax. But I’m finding it hard to stay on track.

  Over breakfast, I’m eating my oversized bowl of crunchy cereal with colored marshmallows. I love those totally processed marshmallows. There it is.

  Skipper McNeary, 43, received probation… Mr. McNeary is prohibited from owning an animal for two years.

  What kind of name is Skipper for a grown man? Over and over I read the brief judgment. He killed that sweet black dog and all he got was a slap on the hand? I slam the laptop closed. What the hell is wrong with this world? Don’t they know what he’ll do next? That evil moves from hurting animals to hurting people. The unfairness pours into my brain and repeats over and over again.

  The sheepdog was stretched out under the hedge. Grayson had gotten close enough a few weeks ago to tell it was a boy, and a big one at that. He looked to be a good eighty-five pounds. Before going on the run, the dog would have been a great-looking specimen, but now he looked like a dirty mop.

  The dog was acquiring a helluva reputation at the office. Some of Grayson’s coworkers had begun calling him the ghost dog, based on his wiliness in evading capture.

  He drove slowly past the house and parked around the corner. By the time he made it to the house, the dog was gone. It was as if he’d never been there.

  Making his way back to the truck, Grayson chuckled and called it in.

  “He got away again. I swear he recognized the truck.”

  A neighbor had made the call, though Grayson knew people were feeding the dog based on how chunky he looked. He heard a little girl say she hoped the dog was never captured, that he should run free forever. Then again, she believed in unicorns too.

  Grayson checked the next call and headed over to a high-end neighborhood, where a cat was menacing the local birds in a man’s backyard. He would set out a trap baited with food to catch the cat.

  Fred Hamilton called dispatch to let them know he was checking on one of his cases. Wanted to make sure the homeowner in question wasn’t keeping any more dogs. The house was a normal-looking home in a lower-income neighborhood. The guy living there—the inside of the house looked like a garbage dump.

  He rolled up slowly. Over the radio he heard Grayson talking about the ghost dog they’d all failed to catch for more than a year. Walking around the back of the empty house, he chuckled.

  Wait. There was something about the door. Fred edged closer for a better look. There was a bang, and it took him a second to register the sound. It was a second too long.

  Fred opened his eyes, dirt and grass filling his nose and mouth. Everything was on fire. He tried to roll over, catch his breath. When he exhaled, a fine red mist blew back on his face. A guy ran from the house, shotgun in his hand. Fred’s hand fell away as he reached for the radio. Staring up at the sky, he wondered when it had turned cold.

  CHAPTER 8

  “NO, I WILL NOT TAKE you to the gun range. What on earth for?”

  Jackson Huntington III narrows his green eyes at me like I’ve asked him how to make a bomb in his kitchen sink.

  “I already know how to shoot. Gramps taught me when I was ten, but I haven’t gone target shooting since I was in high school. Don’t you think all women should know how to defend themselves?”

  Recognizing the beginning of a familiar argument, he runs a hand through curly brown hair, making it stick out all over his head like a porcupine. If I laugh now it will start a huge fight, so I swallow the giggles.

  “You have me. You don’t need to worry about defending yourself. I’ll take you skeet shooting. Will that satisfy you?”

  “Like that’s useful. I’m not worried about getting attacked by a flock of birds. Anyway, you go hunting.”

  “It’s different. Daddy and I do that together. All the men in our social set do. Mother would have heart failure hearing about you tramping around at the range with me. If you’re looking for something to fill your time, why don’t you volunteer with her on the library fundraiser? You love books. Every time I see you, you have your nose in a book.”

  This conversation is going nowhere. Like most things in my life, I guess I’ll have to do it myself.

  Jackson comes from a very wealthy family. His parents have narrow ideas about the roles a man and woman should occupy in a relationship. They make me feel like I’m always doing something inappropriate. It makes me wonder sometimes—why is he even with me? Subconsciously it’s likely to piss off his parents. This is a family who has their name on a building at Duke University. His mother wants a Junior League, Daughters of the American Revol
ution, blood-so-blue-it’s-like-ice girl for her son. Like his ex, who volunteers at the Bargain Box and knits tiny nests for injured baby birds. Whatever.

  Time to calm things down. “You’re right. Work has just been so crazy lately I thought it might be a good way to blow off steam. I think I’ll go for a walk; that always helps.”

  “Should I talk to Mother about the fundraiser?”

  “Not yet. Things are ramping up at work, so I’d hate to commit right now and disappoint her later.”

  He leans over and kisses me on the cheek. “Let me know if you change your mind, sugar.”

  As he stands silhouetted in the doorway, I have the strangest feeling he’s walking out of my life.

  “Hope? Are we okay?”

  “We’re fine. Go play golf with your friends.” Waving him off, I comfort myself with the fact I didn’t technically lie. I simply left out what I’ve decided to do.

  The nondescript building sits by itself on a side road in Garner. Inside, a guy in a blue shirt with the company logo on his left sleeve greets me. After some questions, he takes me through a safety orientation. The great thing about the South is most folks don’t question why you want to shoot a gun. They get it.

  “It’s been a while since I’ve done any target practice. I don’t have my own gun. Is it possible to rent one?” Liar. You have two.

  “Sure thing. What didja have in mind?” He shows me the guns they have available. I look for one similar to the ones I have back at the apartment, buried.

  “How about that one?”

  “Smith & Wesson .38 revolver. Classic. Fires five rounds before you need to reload.”

  “It isn’t too heavy?”

  “Naw, it’s a good choice for a little lady. My momma keeps one in her nightstand.”

  “Let’s do it.” No one’s paying any attention to me as a few men leave and others come in to shoot. One of the guys, something about the way he moves, makes me frown. Some kind of law enforcement. I make a note to stay clear of him.

  “Here’s a box of ammo. How many targets you want today?”

  I point to the target of a cartoon criminal. “Since it’s been a while, I want to get comfortable again. How about three of those?”

  This is one of those times I wish I’d brought one of my mementos from college. Not the sweatshirt, faded and soft, but my fake ID. At the time I got it, I laughed, seeing it was from North Carolina and the name was Caroline Pope. Then I thought it was a sign when I was offered the job here, so I kept it, hoping it would continue to bring me good fortune. Why didn’t I think to bring it today? Oh well. It isn’t a crime to go to a shooting range.

  The helpful employee takes my license and makes me a membership card. I panic, thinking about the fake, and ponder going home to get it. But in the end I hand over my license. That fake brought me good luck, so let’s hope it would continue to do so. I make a mental note to dig it out. Start carrying it again like my own personal four-leaf clover. The guy who made my ID did them for everyone in my dorm. He was an art student and it was how he paid for college.

  Once I walked in on him late at night in the art studio. He was copying two of my favorite Mary Cassat works. Child in a Straw Hat and Little Girl in a Blue Armchair. I grinned as he shrugged and told me they were for some pretentious jerk in Wichita. Said the IDs and fake paintings paid the bills. He didn’t have any family or help. It was all on him. We all do what we have to in order to get by.

  Jackson’s off playing golf today like he does most weekends, unless we’ve made plans to do something during the day. My fake agenda was spending the day at Seagrove with a friend from work. It wasn’t a complete lie. Lisa is going to Seagrove for the day. I asked her to pick me up a couple more plates from O’Quinn Pottery. I’ve been collecting a piece here and there. With what she’ll pick up today, I’ll have full service for four. The dishes are sturdy and the glaze gorgeous. Purples and blues. I like supporting local craftsmen. She and I are planning to meet up for dinner later. I’ll get my dishes, she can show off her first Phil Morgan vase, and tomorrow I’ll show Jackson when he comes over.

  Usually the North Carolina Museum of Art doesn’t start the outdoor movies until late May. But with the sweltering heat along with an extra donation and openings in the schedule, they’re starting early. The first one is tomorrow. The rest will be on Saturdays, and we both love going. It’s what we did on our first date. It’s so much fun to have a picnic and watch a movie under the stars. They project it up on the wall. And tomorrow a small orchestra will play before the film. A perfect way to end the week.

  The range officer shows me to my lane. The place is all concrete and gray walls. Even though I’m wearing ear protection, I can hear the muffled crack of gunfire. Can understand how people think a car backfiring sounds similar. There are men in the lanes firing a variety of weaponry as we pass by before coming to a stop at the last lane.

  “Figured I put you at the end. Can’t have you embarrassing all these guys.”

  He gets the desired laugh out of me. “They look like pretty good shots.”

  Gramps was a crack shot, and I used to be scary accurate. But that was a long time ago. Back then I won so many banana splits for hitting the bullseye, I started trading them in for books and other stuff. Obviously I’m way out of practice, as my first six or seven shots are all over the place. The guy I pegged for a cop is shooting in the lane next to me. At a break, he comes over.

  “First time?”

  “I learned when I was little but haven’t shot in a really long time. Is it that obvious?”

  “You’re flinching when you pull the trigger.”

  He stands behind me. His breath warm against my ear. “You want to breathe out slowly and squeeze.”

  One more shot. This time I hit the outline of the criminal in the arm.

  “Better. Now line up the sights. Put the front sight in the center of the back sight and get them level. Don’t lock your arm, but keep it straight. Once you have the sights lined up, place them on the target where you want your bullet to end up. Like you’re pointing. Now gently exhale and squeeze.”

  I hear my heart beating inside the protective gear covering my ears. Breathing slowly, in and out, like I do when I meditate. Everything else falls away but my target. The cartoon face changes to one with a sneer. One I’ve memorized.

  “Nice. Much better.”

  I place the gun on the ledge in front of me, pointed downrange. It’s empty. The guy behind me reaches out and flips a switch, bringing the target up.

  “Nice, tight grouping. You’re a good shot. Most women are. Once they commit, they’re all in.” He chuckles. “It’s a good thing women aren’t the ones out there doing most of the shootings.”

  I laugh along with him. “Of course, if they did, there might be a lot fewer bad people running around in the world.”

  “True. Though without any bad guys, I’d be out of a job.”

  “You’re a cop?”

  “State highway patrol. I live nearby. The name is Kevin.” He holds out a hand. We shake, and I notice his hands are huge.

  “I’m Hope. Thanks for helping me.”

  “No problem. Hope I see you again, Hope.”

  We both laugh. “Me too. Maybe by then I’ll be a better shot.” I’d better be. After all, what’s the line? I have miles to go before I sleep…

  CHAPTER 9

  JACKSON’S HOUSE IS SO MUCH nicer than my own place. Though considering he lives in the same neighborhood as his parents…that part isn’t quite as nice. His mother is always popping over. As I stand in the kitchen drinking my tea, I gaze out the bank of windows that look out over the backyard. His mother hired some fancy landscape designer, and I have to admit, they did a beautiful job. Everything is in bloom this time of year, a veritable impressionist landscape.

  The cool air comes on and I shiver. I decide to read the paper out on the screened-in porch while I wait for Jackson to come downstairs. In this day and age, I would have thought news
papers would fade away, but nope. The smell of newsprint fills my nose as I carry it from the driveway into the house. It’s already sultry. The heat slams into me as soon as I step out from the icy-cold air conditioning and into the humidity that is North Carolina. It would be nice if it cooled down by the time we go to the movie tonight.

  Before Jackson and I got together, I think the last time I read a newspaper was when I lived in Kansas. My grandparents got the paper every day. Gramps would sit in the kitchen, drinking coffee, reading it cover to cover. Always in order and always commenting on the articles. Me? I liked the comics.

  A glass of sweet tea with fresh mint and I’m good to go. Moisture beads on the glass, making a wet ring on the glass top of the wrought iron table. A small column buried toward the back of the front section, in the bottom right-hand corner, catches my eye.

  Sean Manfred, 25, of Whiteville, was charged with animal cruelty. An early-morning jogger saw the man covering the pit bull’s head with a plastic bag. The horrified woman watched him jump up and down on the dog’s head. Animal control officers responded to the scene, along with the Columbus County sheriff’s office. The dog is being treated for a broken jaw and other broken bones and lacerations.

  The plastic glass of iced tea goes flying off the table, hitting the wooden planks and bouncing three times before rolling to a stop in the corner. Tea seeps through the cracks, the ice scattering everywhere. My hand trembles as I squat down to mop up the mess with my cloth napkin.

  What is wrong with people? Ever since that poor dog in Wilmington, it seems like I see evidence of people’s cruelty everywhere I look. It’s like when you buy a new car. Before you bought it you didn’t notice the make and model or the color, but once you own it…everywhere you look, you notice the same car as yours. No matter how hard I’ve tried over the past week and a half, I can’t unsee the bloody bat.