Run Away Baby

Yesterday morning Abby Greer’s co-worker discovered a note on her desk from the missing woman, penned several days prior, indicating that if anything should happen to her, she suspected a vendor who regularly visited their business as being involved. The co-worker, who wishes to remain anonymous, had just returned from a short vacation, not finding the note until that morning. She showed the note to her boss, a friend of Randall Greer, and Greer immediately contacted local police and FBI.

The suspect Mrs. Greer named is Charles P. Stinger. Stinger is considered a suspect in Mrs. Greer’s disappearance and is considered to be armed and dangerous. Stinger was listed along with his cousin Rake Allen Shucks as a person of interest in the October 2012 assault of a Grace Lorreth College student who was raped, beaten, and left for dead near her dorm. The student’s name has never been made public, at the request of her family. She has remained in a coma and in a persistently vegetative state with little hope of recovery. She has never been able to communicate details about what happened the night of her assault. Neither Stinger nor Shucks were charged for that crime and it has remained unsolved.

Abby read this paragraph over again, confused. What could that have to do with her? She remembered hearing the stor

y back when it happened. A girl who went to the local, private all-girls college had gotten assaulted walking back to her dorm. It had been very violent. For a while everyone in her area was on edge, waiting for it to happen again. This girl, Abby suddenly recalled with a prickling chill, had worked at Mikayla’s Coffee House, the place Charlie took her to the first time anything happened between them.

She continued reading:

On Monday morning the Bennington, Florida police department received a call from a couple living in the unincorporated town of Grove, eleven miles south of Bennington, indicating that two men had been in their area late Sunday night and were suspected of vandalizing their vehicles and home over a confrontation earlier in the evening. This incident was not originally believed to be connected to Mrs. Greer’s disappearance. However, the couple, who also wish to remain anonymous, saw Stinger’s photo on the news last night after he was identified as a suspect in Greer’s disappearance. They recognized him as one of the suspects who destroyed their property, and have since named Shucks as the other suspect in this incident. They indicated that a third person, an unidentified woman, was seen with Stinger and Shucks the night of the vandalism, prior to its occurrence. They were unsure whether she may have also been involved in the destruction of their property. This woman is being called a person of interest in both the vandalism at the Grove property and the disappearance of Abigail Greer.

Neither Stinger nor Shucks have reported to work since Greer’s disappearance.

This turn of events, linking Stinger and Shucks to Greer’s unknown whereabouts, has prompted local authorities and FBI to descend on the area south of Grove, where they are currently combing the area for clues, and have launched a full-on manhunt for Stinger, Shucks, and the unidentified woman. See photos and sketch. No details have emerged yet about their findings. If you have any information relating to these investigations, please contact local police or FBI immediately.

Abby looked around her. Cars were filling up the parking spaces. People had jobs and appointments at the real estate offices, dentist offices, and cafés that lined the downtown. Barely daring to, she picked up the Bennington Gazette. It was a weekly paper, and came out fresh every Wednesday morning.

A huge photo of a riding lawnmower with big dents in it was the cover story. She breathed a sigh of relief, until she looked at the headline: Vandals May Be Linked to Missing Woman.

The big news story from Bennington’s point of view was that all kinds of local personal property had been damaged. It wasn’t until she turned the page that she saw a photo of herself along with reprints of the others. She skimmed the article, distracted by the flutter of activity around her, feeling conspicuous. The article ended on a positive note; it said that the night this happened, the people had lost their beloved dog, but he showed up at home on Monday evening.

Abby leaned forward and picked up her coffee, swallowing back tears that were, more than anything, made of exhaustion. She skimmed the local paper for another moment, trying to look casual and normal. She flipped through the local sports section and the school news, and lingered on the advertisements for a couple of minutes. She memorized things that might come in handy: Bennington Tigers vs. Newville Knights. Newville Outlet Mall Opening This Month! Now Hiring All Locations!

Folding the papers, she stuffed them into her bag and stood up. She started walking, unsure where she was going. Everyone would be reading the paper right now. What she needed was to steal a car and get the hell out of here.

There had been a time before all of this, before Randall even, when Abby was starting to blossom into who she thought she was going to be. The Derek Johnson days. That time during her early twenties when the wondrousness of things that could happen only in the night trumped the pain of getting up early.

She and Derek were in the habit of sharing a bottle of wine and then going for late night jogs. For miles, in actual running shorts and running shoes. It hadn’t seemed weird at the time. Buzzed and giddy and laughing. Arms and legs loose and wiggly. She’d never been much for running, but a couple of glasses of wine really helped. They’d run all the way to the swings by the beach and then swing for sometimes an hour. Talking and singing, and when people shouted at them and slammed their windows shut it made them talk longer, sing louder. They’d swim in the ocean in their underwear and exchange Merlot kisses. She’d felt superior and, for the first time in her life, sophisticated compared to her friends.

She was free and powerful, and felt as much an actual part of the night as the stars or the black, inky ocean. She and Derek belonged to each other, and being half owned by him took nothing away from her. She had a family still. She was normal, but she was anything but average. Enviable in a real way, not in the way she was with Randall, where she always thought, Oh, if only you knew.

She tried to draw on that girl to revive her. That old Abby. That young Abby. That Abby was going to get her through this. She was going to help her love life and people again.

The Abby she was now didn’t know any longer how to feel special, or how to see other people as special. When she was twenty-one lots of people were special. Now no one seemed inspiring or remarkable to her. Maybe that could change.

If she made it through this, if she came out the other side, maybe she would be reborn. Maybe she could be new again.

She turned down a side street to get away from the downtown, walking several blocks. Before long she heard children shouting and laughing. In front of her was a school. There were buses lined up at the curb like they were going on a field trip. Parents and teachers everywhere, going through with something they’d planned weeks or months ago, their faces tight and stressed like they were on high-alert. Abby wanted to turn around and head back in the direction she’d come from, but she feared it would look suspicious. So she walked straight on, head down, toward it all. She evaluated her frumpy jeans, felt the weight of her tote bag bumping against her with each step. She reached up and felt for the cap on her head. She really didn’t look anything like the beautiful missing woman. Sunglasses, shorter hair, Nicholas Sparks book sticking out of the top of her bag. She was not Abby Greer. She was not the girl on the swings. She was a random, boring woman.

“Hi! There’s room on this one if you’re coming along to the Museum of Art,” yelled a woman with a visor and a clipboard. She was pointing a pencil at one of the buses.

Without hesitation, Abby went for it. “Great!” she said.

She went up the steps of the bus and settled in near the back beside a miserable looking girl who was about twelve. She kept her sunglasses on, despite the overcast weather. For the benefit of any other adult in hearing range, she said, “You’ll have to excuse me if I don’t want to be bothered, but I have the worst migraine and I’m hoping to kick it before we get to the museum.”

The girl nodded and looked out the window. Abby noticed a couple of women look her way, curious, wondering which child she belonged to. Was she the mother of the girl beside her? No, they probably knew who her mother was. They were telling themselves they’d leave this mystery woman alone now, since she was sick, since they’d have the whole day to get the chance to know her.

Abby took a couple of aspirin from her tote bag and downed them with a big swallow of water, for dramatic effect, then she closed her eyes and stuck her fingers beneath her sunglasses, rubbing her temples. She heard a few more people getting on. The bus was loud with kids talking and laughing. It felt like a merciful barrier from anyone approaching her or trying to speak to her. Keep away, she prayed. Keep away.

And then finally the bus started moving. They were on their way. Heading someplace bigger than here. A city with a museum. It must be Tampa, she decided.

She opened her book and pretended she was reading. A woman several seats in front of Abby turned in her seat, eyeing her, blatantly curious. She wore a red, white, and blue jumper with stars on it. She looked to Abby like the kind of person who would be her undoing. Abby closed the book and rubbed her temple

s some more. The woman cocked her head to the left, to the right, watching. She scratched the spot on her head where a sparkly red barrette was holding back her wispy brown hair.

The bus hit a bump and the woman grabbed the seat in front of her, distracted back into focusing straight ahead for a moment. Another woman turned to her and started talking about her new part-time job. Somehow through the chatter and road noise Abby could single out snippets of their conversation: “Oh, it’s great working again… three days a week... Dave isn’t happy he’s got to cook his own dinner… I told him tough cookies… sure is nice having a little extra spending money.”

They rolled along for what felt to Abby like at least an hour. She tried to look sick enough to be avoided, but not sick enough to elicit concern. It didn’t take long for the bus riders to settle into talking to the people near them, and to forget about her.