The other thought Tess had as they reached the chained attic door was that she was still terrified to face that horrible old lady again. If Mama Sybil had a pistol too, would she be risking a bullet to the brain, like Dane?

* * *

Even after all the negative reports came in from the volunteer teams, Gabe had exhausted himself searching. He was running on sheer adrenaline, guts and fear. He’d explored Tess’s house, attic to cellar, and about jumped out of his skin when his flashlight had illumined a dummy on the floor of the basement. He remembered that Grace had done sewing and alterations to earn extra money before they moved to the Hear Ye compound. It was an old dressmaker’s mannequin, but it had looked like a woman on the floor at first.

He was so desperate that he had requested another search warrant, this one for Bright Star’s compound. He was afraid he was getting to be persona non grata with the judge, but he didn’t care anymore. Not about his health, his job, his life—he just wanted to find Tess, Jill and Sandy safe. Had someone taken Tess off Main Street outside the library?

He drove to the burned-out site of Marva Green’s old house and searched the back buildings again. Nothing but trash, owls and rats. He sat down on an upturned tin tub and tried to think about where else he could search.

He decided to go back to the office, make that call to the church woman who had counseled Tess. His hope was that maybe she’d kind of debriefed little Teresa and could shed new light on what happened all those years ago. He remembered his father saying that Tess’s mother thought it best if no one mentioned the horrible experience, but just tried to go back to normal. Normal? Nothing had ever been normal again.

* * *

Miss Etta unlocked the padlock on the chain holding the attic door closed, and it rattled as it uncoiled itself. Tess was tempted to shove the woman down the stairs, but that pistol could go off. And would it endanger Sandy if she was with Mama Sybil on the other side of that door? If only she could get her hands untied like her feet.

Tess steeled herself for what she’d find within, but she also realized that, if Miss Etta locked them in again, they weren’t getting out of this chained door without an ax.

With the pistol still pressed to her side, Tess shuffled into the dim attic. She scanned the length of it, built with a long center section and two wings. A small bed under the eaves, a few toys—and another Mr. Mean leaning against the slanted wall under the eaves. Two bare lightbulbs dangled from the ceiling. Old hump-backed trunks were stored here. Stacks of old-fashioned hat boxes, several old, cracked paintings, bedsprings and a headboard, all suddenly, horribly familiar.

But why would Miss Etta keep her mother up here? Those stairs must be close to impossible for a crippled person in a wheelchair. It was chilly here too, so wouldn’t she keep her mother downstairs? Tess recalled that it was the first floor where she’d been forced to climb onto the old woman’s lap to be cuddled and petted—and held down to be beaten when she disobeyed, all under the watchful eye of a stag head mounted over the fireplace mantel.

As Tess’s eyes adjusted, she saw Mama Sybil at the far end of the room sitting slumped in her wheelchair. And Sandy—she was alive!—sat in her lap.

Miss Etta prodded Tess closer with the gun still in her ribs. Her first instinct was to comfort Sandy, who, thank God, turned her head and moved one leg to show she was alert. She must be drugged or too terrified to speak.

Miss Etta prodded Tess. “Apologize to Mama Sybil for escaping!” She stopped Tess about ten feet from Mama Sybil. “Get on your knees and tell her you are very, very sorry!”

Tess dropped to her knees with the pistol now pressed to the nape of her neck. Before she could speak, a deep voice behind her spoke. “Is this our Teresa come back to us, Etta?”

Tess gasped and jerked.

Sandy stirred on Mama Sybil’s lap and sniffled.

“I’m sorry I ran away, Mama Sybil,” Tess said. “Can I come closer?”

“All right,” the voice from behind intoned. “But you behave or else.”

Miss Etta was speaking for her mother. Tess thought maybe the old woman had suffered a stroke and couldn’t talk.

“On your knees, forward,” Miss Etta said, in what Tess recalled was a perfect rendition of her cruel mother’s voice.

Tess scooted forward. She forced a smile at Sandy and mouthed reassuring words. Sandy, hello.

Then she gasped. There was no woman holding Sandy. She—it—had no face except an enlarged photograph of Mama Sybil with stuffing behind it and a nylon stocking pulled over it to which a white wig was tied or sewn. The body was maybe wood sticks, like a scarecrow, wrapped with cloth, or stuffed, with fake arms and legs. The gown was old-fashioned and smelled stale and musty. A crocheted afghan was over the legs clear down to a pair of old black, laced shoes. It was so grotesque, yet so real from a distance, that Tess felt she’d been punched in the stomach. She almost screamed.

“She’s not...not there!” she cried. “Is she downstairs? Did she die?”

It was the wrong thing to say. The blow to her head was hard. It stunned her. She heard the child squeal. And then she hit the floor.

30

Tess felt a small, gentle hand brushing her hair from her face. Her head hurt horribly. Where was she?

Then she remembered. She opened her eyes. Sandy Kenton was bent over her, her little face wet with tears.

“Is she gone?” Tess asked.

“Miss Etta carried Mama Sybil downstairs to put her to bed. She said Mr. Mean would hurt me if I talked to you, but I just want to ask one thing.”

Tess groaned and struggled to sit up. Her hands were still tied behind her back and her feet were bound again. Only Sandy’s hands were tied, but the girl was tethered to the empty wheelchair, which she’d dragged close enough to reach Tess.

“Ask me,” Tess said, trying to sound calm and quiet when she wanted to sob and scream. “I’m your friend. My name is Tess.”

“Do you know my mommy?”

“Yes. Yes, I know her, and she wants you to come home.”

“I can’t go home. I can’t even say it or Mr. Mean—”

“I know because they kept me here too once, but I got away from them and Mr. Mean and went home to my mommy. And you can too, if you help me.”

“But Mama Sybil is my other mommy now.”

“Mama Sybil isn’t real. Have you seen her walk and talk since you’ve been here?”

“No, she’s always like that, a big doll. But I have to say she’s real.”

“Sandy, turn your back to my back and let me try to untie you. Then you untie me so we can both go home. Your mommy and daddy want you to come home with me. Come on now, turn around back to back, okay? We might not have much time.”

“We don’t. Miss Etta said soon you are going to go to sleep with someone named Jill and some pioneer people, her family.”

Tess steeled herself to stay calm. Jill really was dead and buried out back. “Okay, good job, Sandy,” Tess said, as the child got close enough that she could begin to fumble with her ties. But her own hands were bound so tight she couldn’t grasp a cord to loosen Sandy’s. Maybe she should have studied the knots before trying to undo them. At least Sandy’s hands were small and sweaty and not tied quite as tight as her own.

As she tried to loosen the girl’s ties, Tess spoke to her about the two searches for her, told her that the police would give back the Barbie doll she left behind. Tess fought the worst headache she’d ever had and prayed that Etta Falls, who must be digging another grave, would not come back in time.

Finally she managed to free one of the child’s hands, and then they both popped free.

“Sandy, turn around and see if you can untie my hands.”

“I have scissors I cut out paper dolls with, but they don’t have sharp points.”