The Empty Chair

fishy.”
    “The Williams case?” McGuire asked. “That black woman?”
    “That was it.”
    “I heard of that one. You represented her?” Bell asked.
    “Right. She was giving us pretty odd stories and had a history of mental problems. I hired this psychologist over in Avery, hoping he could give me an insanity opinion. He ran some tests on her. During one of ’em she opened up and told us what had happened.”
    “Hypnosis—that recovered-memory crap?” McGuire asked.
    “No, it’s something else. He called it empty chair therapy. I don’t exactly know how it works but it really started her talking. Like all she needed was a little push.Let me give this guy a call and have him come over and talk to Garrett. The boy might see reason. . . . But”—now the defense got to poke a finger in Bell’s chest—“everything they talk about’s privileged and you don’t get diddly unless the guardian ad litem and I say so first.”
    Bell caught McGuire’s eye and nodded. The D.A. said, “Call him.”
    “Okay.” Fredericks stepped toward the phone in the corner of the interrogation room.
    Sachs said, “Excuse me?”
    The lawyer turned to her.
    “That case the psychologist helped you with? The Williams case?”
    “Yeah?”
    “What happened with her child? Did he run away?”
    “Naw, the mother killed him. Baled him up in chicken wire and a cinder block and drowned him in a pond behind the house. Hey, Jim, how do I get an outside line?”

    The scream was so loud that it stung her dry throat like fire and for all Mary Beth knew permanently damaged her vocal cords.
    The Missionary, walking by the edge of the woods, paused. His backpack was over one shoulder, a tank like a weed sprayer in his hand. He glanced around himself.
    Please, please, please, Mary Beth was thinking. Ignoring the pain, she tried again. “Over here! Help me!”
    He looked at the cabin. Started to walk away.
    She took a deep breath, thought of Garrett Hanlon’s clicking fingernails, his wet eyes and hard erection, thought of her father’s brave death, of Virginia Dare. . . . And she gave the loudest scream she ever had.
    This time the Missionary stopped, looked toward the cabin again. He pulled off his hat, left the rucksack and tank on the ground and started running toward her.
    Thank you. . . . She started to sob. Oh, thank you!
    He was thin and well-tanned. In his fifties but in good shape. Clearly an outdoorsman.
    “What’s wrong?” he called, gasping, when he was fifty feet away, slowing to a trot. “Are you all right?”
    “Please!” she rasped. The pain in her throat was overwhelming. She spit more blood.
    He walked cautiously up to the broken window, looking at the shards of glass on the ground.
    “You need some help?”
    “I can’t get out. Somebody’s kidnapped me—”
    “Kidnapped?”
    Mary Beth wiped her face, which was wet with tears of relief and sweat. “A high school kid from Tanner’s Corner.”
    “Wait . . . I heard about that. Was on the news. You’re the one he kidnapped?”
    “That’s right.”
    “Where is he now?”
    She tried to speak but her throat hurt too much. She breathed deeply and finally responded, “I don’t know. He left last night. Please . . . do you have any water?”
    “A canteen, with my gear. I’ll get it.”
    “And call the police. You have a phone?”
    “Not with me.” He shook his head and grimaced. “I’m doing contract work for the county.” He nodded toward the backpack and tank. “We’re killing marijuana, you know, that kids plant out here. The county gives us those cell phones but I never bother with mine. You hurt bad?” He studied her head, the crusted blood.
    “It’s okay. But . . . water. I need water.”
    He trotted back to the woods and for a terrible moment she was afraid he’d keep going. But he picked up an olive drab canteen and ran back. She took it with trembling hands and forced herself to drink slowly. The water was hot and musty but she’d never had as wonderful a drink as this.
    “I’m going to try and get you out,” the man said. He walked to the front door. A moment later she heard a faint thud as he either kicked the door or tried to break it with his shoulder. Another. Two more. He picked up a rock and slammed it into the wood. It had no effect. He returned to the window. “It’s not budging.” He wiped sweat from his forehead as he examined the bars on the windows. “Man, he built himself a prison here.