The Girl in the White Van Page 12

  “Does he have access to vehicles customers leave at the shop?”

  “I guess he would.”

  “Has he shown any unusual interest in your daughter?”

  Bitterness coated the back of my tongue. I didn’t think it was possible, but things had just gotten worse. “No.” Was that really true? She and Tim were home alone together every night while I was at work. And Savannah had made no secret of not liking him. I had thought it was just because he was rough around the edges.

  Officer Diaz continued. “Did you know Mr. Hixon was once arrested for domestic violence?”

  “What?”

  “Fifteen months ago, he was arrested for assaulting a woman who also occupied this residence. But rather than cooperate with the DA, she moved away.” He paused. “At least that’s what we thought happened at the time. We are currently having trouble locating her.”

  Slowly, I filled in what he wasn’t saying. Had Tim done something to his last girlfriend to prevent her from testifying? I remembered how he had apologized when he saw the marks on my wrist. How he had kissed them. But he was the one who had made them. Who was he, really?

  “Does Mr. Hixon own a Taser?” Officer Diaz’s voice seemed like it was coming from far away.

  “Not that I know of.”

  But what did I really know? I was starting to think: nothing.

  “Do you mind if we look around? See if we find anything?”

  “No.” A voice inside me was shouting that I was responsible for this. “Go ahead.”

  “Is there any area of the house that’s off limits to you?” Officer Diaz asked as he got out his cell phone. “Or where he’s told you not to go?”

  A chill ran over my skin. I shook my head.

  Ten minutes later, three more officers arrived and joined Officer Diaz in searching the house. Amy sat with me on the couch, which became an island of calm in a sea of movement. Not knowing what else to do, I played the video over and over. Were those Tim’s boots? Tim’s hands roughly grabbing under Savannah’s arms?

  I realized Amy was shaking, an almost imperceptible trembling. We exchanged a glance. Was she thinking what I was? That Tim could have taken both Savannah and Jenny?

  When Amy pressed the button to watch the video one more time, I got up to use the bathroom. All the outlet and vent covers had been taken off. “Are you looking for drugs?” I asked one of the new officers, a woman, who was in our bedroom, across the hall.

  “No, ma’am.” Was I imagining the judgment on her face? “We were looking for hidden cameras.”

  Hidden cameras? I realized who they thought Tim might have been filming. I tried to keep my voice steady. “And did you find any?”

  “Not so far.”

  I closed and locked the bathroom door. I barely made it to the toilet in time to be sick. How could I have been so blind? What had Tim done to my Savannah?

  Ten minutes later, when someone tapped on the bathroom door, I had thrown up so much all that was coming out was yellow bile.

  “Lorraine?” It was Amy. I had only met her a few hours ago, but now she knew more about me and my messed-up life than anyone. I was too paralyzed with fear and guilt to feel shame. How could she even stand to talk to me, the woman who had been obliviously living with Tim for months? “Lorraine, can you come out here for a second? Detective Diaz wants to talk to you.”

  I flushed the toilet, rinsed out my mouth, and unlocked the door. Amy didn’t say anything, just took my arm. As we walked down the hall, I felt like a prisoner being led to the electric chair. Had they found Savannah’s body?

  But the reason was laid out on the dining room table. Two handguns and an assault rifle. All of them a dead, flat black.

  “Did you know that Mr. Hixon had these?” Detective Diaz asked.

  1. Learn the rules.

  2. Keep to the rules.

  3. Dissolve the rules.

  —BRUCE LEE

  SAVANNAH TAYLOR

  Jenny was right. Even if our situation seemed impossible, it was wrong to embrace death. So what would Bruce Lee do if he were the one stuck in this motor home? If I had learned one thing about him, it was that he was always seeing things from a different angle. Unlike Sir, he had disdained rigid rules. Rules. Something about that idea nagged at me.

  I leaned toward Jenny. “What were those stupid rules of Sir’s again?”

  She took a deep breath and rattled them off. “Always call him Sir. Never look him in the eye. Dress attractively. Keep things picked up. Don’t make noise. And be grateful that he keeps you alive.”

  “Only he’s the one who’s breaking the last rule.” I got up and started pacing. The space was so small I was almost walking in circles. “Maybe we need to break all the other ones. What would happen if we did the exact opposite of them?”

  She tilted her head. “What do you mean?”

  “Take the one about not making noise. What if we opened the door as far as it goes and started yelling? Then Rex would start barking. And if Sir came back to tell us to be quiet, we could attack him.” An even better idea bloomed. “Or, wait a minute. Technically, this is a vehicle, right? Which means it has a horn. What if we started honking it?”

  Jenny’s broken mouth smiled. “Oh, Sir wouldn’t like that. Not at all. He’d get nervous someone would hear and start asking questions.” Her expression changed. “But couldn’t he just cut a wire or something, like how he went underneath and opened up the water valve?”

  “I don’t think he could open the hood without releasing a latch. And to do that, he’d have to come inside and pull a lever or something under the dash.” I leaned over and grabbed up the tights/SpaghettiOs nunchucks. “Once he unlocks the chain, I’ll hit him with the can, just like we planned. And then we’ll run for the fence.”

  Jenny’s hand rose to her scars. “But what about Rex?”

  Another piece of the plan fell into place. “When we start making noise, Rex will start barking, right? And when Sir yells at Rex, we can listen to the commands and then use them ourselves after we escape.”

  “But Rex will know we’re not Sir.”

  “If it doesn’t work, I can always hit Rex with the can, too.” I actually felt worse contemplating hurting the dog than I did the man.

  “Rex moves so fast, though.” Jenny winced. “What if you miss?”

  An answer hovered just out of reach, until I thought back to the rules. “Instead of dressing attractively, we’ll put on all your clothes. Layer them up. That way, if Rex tries to bite us, he’ll just get cloth instead of skin.”

  “That might work.” She looked at my sling. “But how are you going to put layers over that?”

  In my excitement, I’d forgotten about it. “I’ll take off the sling, but not the splint. Do you have some sweaters or something that would stretch over it?” I figured the magazine would protect my forearm.

  Jenny began pulling clothes out of boxes and plastic bags and from the tiny closet and along the walls. Some were simply impractical, like short skirts and dresses. The rest we laid on the bed, making piles of tops and bottoms that went from smallest to largest, trying to figure out which order to put them on in and who would wear what.

  She ended up in two pairs of leggings topped with a pair of pants. I could only fit a single pair of leggings under my pants. It was easier to layer tops. With my splint, I was able to get into three, while Jenny wore five. For a final layer, I managed to squeeze into my shredded puffer coat. Jenny didn’t even have a coat, just a pink and white kimono. We both looked lumpy and misshapen, like we were going to a crazy costume party.

  “We should do something more about your neck,” I said, gesturing. I still had my kung fu shirt and the remains of my jacket to provide some protection, but all of the clothes he’d brought her had deep V-necks. We’d both tied hand towels around our necks, but a single layer didn’t seem like enough. I snapped my fingers. “Bruce Lee!”

  “There’s another saying?” she asked.

  “No, I
mean the actual book.” It was a heavy oversized paperback. I handed it to her. “Try sticking it down your front.” Shoved down the layers of shirts and sweaters and held up by her bra, it shielded the top of Jenny’s chest and most of her throat.

  Jenny looked around the RV, now strewn with stuff. “Well, we’ve certainly broken the rule about keeping things picked up.” She managed a smile.

  My eyes fell on her plastic boom box. “Wait! What if we used the boom box to record his commands and then play them back after we escape? Rex might believe it’s Sir. At the very least, it should slow him down.”

  We spent the next half hour experimenting. I stood at the driving end of the RV while Jenny stationed herself just inside the bedroom door and held out the silver plastic mic. Even when I switched from a half shout to my normal voice, the attached microphone still did a good job of recording my words.

  Finally we turned off all the lights and took our stations. I was standing on one side of the door, while Jenny was sitting in the driver’s seat.

  “Ready?” I said.

  You have to create your own luck. You have to be aware of the opportunities around you and take advantage of them.

  —BRUCE LEE

  SAVANNAH TAYLOR

  Instead of answering when I asked if she was ready, Jenny just pressed the horn. It was so loud it hurt my ears. She leaned on it over and over. Blatt-blatt-blatt. Then she switched to a pattern. Blip-blip-blip, blatt-blatt-blatt, blip-blip-blip. Three short beeps, three long beeps, three short, and then a pause. When she repeated it, I recognized the pattern. SOS in Morse code.

  Soon Rex was adding to the noise of the horn, barking so fiercely it sounded like one continuous sound. A few seconds later, his nails scrabbled on the metal steps. I pressed my eye to the crack where the tarp had shifted. It was dark outside and had been for a while. I’d been in this RV for about forty-eight hours, but it already felt like an eternity.

  I couldn’t yet see Sir, but finally, in between beeps, I heard his shouts.

  “He’s coming!” Holding the mic and the boom box, Jenny scrambled into position next to me. With my splint, I was holding the improvised nunchuck against my body. After pushing open the door as far as it would go, I grabbed the end of the tights in my fist.

  As the door started to move, Rex’s barking reached a crescendo. He thrust his muzzle into the gap between the door and the frame. Behind me, Jenny shrieked, but I didn’t budge. Rex futilely snapped his jaws just a couple of inches from my thigh. Despite the cold night air, sweat broke out under my arms and traced my spine.

  Sir was coming closer, shouting, “Hier! Fuss! Platz!” I prayed that the recorder was catching every word.

  At the sound of his master’s voice, Rex didn’t stop barking, but he did pull his head back.

  When I spotted Sir through the gap in the door, I whispered, “Now,” to Jenny. We didn’t need him guessing what we were trying to do. The recorder landed behind the couch with a muffled thump.

  Suddenly Sir was the one with his face in the gap, only much higher than Rex’s had been. His breath stank of alcohol.

  “You know the rule about making noise!”

  “Sorry,” Jenny said, without adding Sir. Her voice shook as she broke two rules at once, because she was also looking directly at him. “But we need to talk.”

  “Not right now, we don’t. You girls need to be quiet and go to bed. It’s late, and I’m tired. We can talk in the morning.”

  “We’re not going to be quiet,” I countered. “Not when you’re leaving us here to die.”

  “Listen, girl, don’t you ever tell me what to do!” Sir’s hand, holding the Taser, shot through the gap. He pressed the end against the hand towel tied around my neck. The air filled with a quick snapping sound. The towel, it turned out, was no protection at all. The pain was indescribable. When I tried to pull away, Jenny was so close that I just stumbled against her.

  Desperately, I swung the can over my head as hard I could and down through the gap. A grunt exploded from Sir when it thumped against his back, but he kept pressing the Taser to my neck. I felt the end of the tights slide through my fingers, the weight of it yanking it out of my grasp. But I could only think about the pain, not my lost weapon.

  Out of the corner of my left eye, I saw a blur as Jenny smashed the heel of her hand through the gap and into the center of Sir’s face. She caught him just under the nose, driving him back.

  Sir let out a shriek. The Taser came away from my throat, and he fell backward off the top step. He landed with a curse, but in less than a second, he had scrambled back to his feet. It didn’t seem like we had done any damage. And the nunchuck was gone.

  “Go ahead,” he yelled. “Make all the noise you want. This time of night, there’s no one to hear. And if you haven’t figured out how to be quiet by morning, I’ll make you be quiet.”

  And then he left.

  And we were still behind the chained and padlocked door.

  JENNY DOWD

  After Sir stormed off, Savannah closed the door and turned on the light. Both of us squinted against the sudden brightness. She sagged on the couch, her fingers massaging her neck.

  Even though our plans hadn’t worked, I felt oddly powerful. I had talked back to Sir. Not only that, I had hit him! When I felt his nose shift under my palm, it had unleashed a feeling of savage glee.

  Savannah’s eyes looked wet. “What do we do now?” she asked. “Should we wait until morning and then honk the horn again?”

  Starting to shake from adrenaline, I remembered his threats. “But what if he comes back with a gun?” I moved into the hall. “We got so close with the vent. Maybe there’s still a way to get it loose.” I jumped up and grabbed the metal crossbar. Above me, the vent let out a groan.

  Was it possible to simply yank the screws loose? Fueled by a surge of excitement, I braced my feet on one wall and pulled down so hard my arms trembled, but the vent didn’t shift or make any more noise.

  Savannah joined me, jumping up and grabbing the bar with her one good hand. But even our combined weight did nothing. Finally we both let go, landing on the floor with a hollow thud.

  Her eyes got big. “What’s under here?” she asked, bouncing on her toes.

  “What do you mean? That’s the floor.”

  “I know that, but what’s under the floor? It sounds like there’s some kind of open space underneath.” Her face lit up. “I’ll bet there is! Like where Greyhound buses store the luggage. If we could get down inside it, we might be able to get out.”

  Hope flared and just as quickly died. “Even if there is a space, we don’t have a saw or anything to cut through the floor to get to it.”

  “But the floor feels spongy. Like it’s rotten.” She kept bouncing.

  I followed her example. She was right. That section of the floor felt squishy. I had noticed it before and then each time promptly forgotten, ignoring it the way I ignored the rest of my circumstances. “Every time it rains hard, water leaks through the vent.”

  Savannah dropped to her knees. “Let’s check it out.”

  Together, we plucked and pulled at the flat brown carpet, trying to get it loose. I broke a nail past the quick in the process, but I didn’t care. We finally managed to yank it back with a ripping sound, releasing the fusty smell of mold.

  Savannah was right. Under the vent, the particle-board floor was black and rotting. I grabbed one of the spoons and the spork, and together Savannah and I attacked the rotten wood, side by side on our knees.

  It was like digging through a quarter inch of wet, slimy, splintery dirt. The smell of mildew clogged my nose. We started using the handles of our utensils like pry bars, lifting up crumbling chunks of wood. Underneath the layer of rotten particle board was something white. As we uncovered more of it, I realized it was a layer of Styrofoam a couple of feet wide, with metal braces on the edges. After we had exposed about a two-foot length, we gouged at it, wincing at the squeaking sounds the Styrofoam made.
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  There had to be a faster way. I got to my feet, took a deep breath, and stomped down with my right foot, punching a hole straight through the Styrofoam. I tumbled forward as my foot dropped two feet before finally landing on something solid.

  Savannah backed up, took a running leap, and landed with both feet right beside me. With a high-pitched squeal, the entire panel of Styrofoam gave way. We fell in a tangled heap.

  And then we were laughing. Laughing and trying to be quiet. I hadn’t laughed about anything in ten months.

  DANIEL DIAZ

  I left the dentist’s office before my dad did. He had to document everything we had found. Before I left, Macy surprised me with an awkward hug. As I was biking home, the memories of what I’d seen on the surveillance video repeated themselves over and over. Savannah being tasered, hitting her head, and then being dragged away. The van rushing past and disappearing.

  What had that guy Tim done to her? Where was she? Was she even still alive? My stomach was in knots.

  When I got home, the house was quiet. Orlando was at a friend’s. My mom was curled up on the couch reading a book, so it was easy to walk past her while only exchanging a few words. Easier than explaining what was really happening. I was starting to see why my dad never shared things.

  But once I was in my room, I couldn’t stand being alone with my thoughts. I started texting friends, asking if they knew of any other girls who had been followed.

  I also started thinking about what had happened in that extra hour before Savannah showed up on the camera. It seemed like a clue, if only I could figure out what it meant. And what about the van? If we could find it, could we find Savannah?

  I was pretty sure the first three digits on the license had been SVT. Oregon license plates were a series of three numbers followed by a space and then three letters. Years ago, it had been the reverse—three letters followed by three numbers. So while the surveillance camera had shown just the SVT, a space, and only part of what came next, I knew they would have been numbers.