The Southern Book Club's Guide to Slaying Vampires - Grady Hendrix Page 0,62

right here not half an hour ago,” Wanda said, kneeling on the floor.

The bedroom was so tiny Wanda’s legs stuck out into the hall as she leaned her head underneath the sleeping platform. On top lay a foam mattress covered with a My Little Pony fitted sheet and a folded plaid blanket. All the little girl’s toys and clothes were stacked up in clear plastic boxes in the corner. A window over the bed was an uncurtained black rectangle looking out at the night.

“Where’s Dessy?” Wanda said, her voice starting to fray. “What did you do to her?”

“We just got here,” Mrs. Greene said.

Wanda shoved past Patricia and ran into the living room like she was going to catch her invisible daughter at the door.

“Dessy?” she called.

“What do you think?” Mrs. Greene asked Patricia, voice low.

In the kitchen, Wanda yanked open every cabinet and moved every box and bag.

Patricia pulled on the window over Destiny’s bed. Smooth and easy, it slid wide open. There was no screen. A wave of warm air and insect screams rolled into the tiny bedroom. Patricia and Mrs. Greene looked out the open window into the woods just a few feet away. Patricia knelt on the sleeping platform and looked down. Outside the window stood a large wooden spool that telephone cable came on. Someone standing on it could reach right through the window.

They walked back to the living room.

“We need to call the police,” Mrs. Greene said.

“What?” Wanda Taylor asked. “What for?”

“Mrs. Taylor,” Patricia said. “There is a man named James Harris who has been dealing drugs to children. You need to call the police and tell them that your daughter is missing, and you think he’s taken her.”

“Oh, Lord Jesus,” Wanda said, and she belched loudly, filling the living room with the stench of her stomach acid.

“He has her in the woods,” Mrs. Greene said. “He’ll still be close by.”

She got Wanda seated on the sofa and helped her light a menthol cigarette to settle her nerves. Wanda looked helplessly for an ashtray and finally just tapped her ashes on the carpet. Patricia stretched the kitchen phone into the room, dialed 911, and handed it to Wanda.

“Hello,” Wanda Taylor said, smoke puffing out of her mouth to the rhythm of her words. “My name is Wanda Taylor and I live at 32 Grill Flame Road. My daughter is not in her bed.” She paused. “No, she is not hiding in the house.” Pause. “Because I looked all over and there isn’t much house for her to hide in. Please send someone, please. Please.”

She didn’t know what else to say so she repeated “Please” until Mrs. Greene took the phone from her hand. Wanda looked helplessly from Patricia to Mrs. Greene like she was seeing them for the first time.

“Would you like Kool-Aid or lite beer?” she asked. “It’s all I’ve got. The water out here smells like eggs.”

“We’re fine, thank you,” Patricia said, kindly.

“We need to sit and wait for the police,” Mrs. Greene said, patting Wanda’s knee. “They’ll be here soon.”

“If you hadn’t come I wouldn’t know she was gone,” Wanda said. “The police will be here soon?”

“Real soon,” Mrs. Greene said, taking her hand.

“I should check her bedroom again,” Wanda said.

They let her go. Patricia thought about the three-minute response time in Mt. Pleasant.

“How long until the police get here?” she asked.

“Could be a while,” Mrs. Greene said. “This is the country.”

Wanda came back into the room and stood in the kitchen.

“She isn’t back,” she said, then noticed them for the first time again. “Would you like something to drink? I have Kool-Aid and lite beer.”

“Wanda,” Mrs. Greene said. “You need to sit down and wait for the police.”

Wanda pulled a chair out from the sticky table and went to take a drag on her cigarette, but it had burned down to the filter. She searched for her pack. Patricia thought about James Harris, somewhere out in the woods with a