Arnesto Modesto Page 11

Thursday, July 17, 1997

  3:12 a.m.

  “Your turn,” Katrina mumbled, nudging Arnesto awake. He could hear baby Melissa crying in the other room. He looked at his alarm clock. 3:12 a.m. He continued to lay there for a moment, unable to move. How many other twenty-five-year-old men were dumb enough to willingly become a father so young?

  Actually, it was the first Arnesto who was willing; this Arnesto felt obligated to keep his family history intact. And so he recreated Melissa and was grateful for his success. Just a little less so at 3:12 in the morning. And she was the easy one. She wasn’t even colicky like Carlos would be after his birth in a couple years, assuming Arnesto would also be successful in recreating him.

  Arnesto forced himself out of bed and into Melissa’s room. He braced himself for the worst, but her diaper didn’t smell. Yes! That was the win he needed right now. All she wanted was to be held.

  He gently bounced her in his arms as he walked back into the master bedroom to report the good news to Katrina, but his wife was already sound asleep.

  Taking the opportunity to compare the two most important women in his life, he could tell even in the darkness that Melissa’s hair, though rather a dark shade itself, was still lighter than her mother’s. Katrina’s hair was also straight, while Melissa had some curls coming in.

  Curls? Melissa’s hair is curly? Since when?! The first Melissa didn’t have curly hair. Who the hell was he carrying right now?! Had they brought home the wrong baby from the hospital?

  Please tell me we didn’t abduct somebody else’s child! he thought. He carried her back into her room, turned on the light, and examined the rest of her. It still seemed like Melissa... Curses, why must all babies look so alike?! Maybe he should wake Katrina and ask her? No, of course not! What would he say, “Hey, hon, do you know why this baby has curly hair when our first Melissa from the other universe had straight hair?” It was probably some change in history: different experiences, different physiology. He and Katrina had minute differences between them and their former selves at this point; why shouldn’t their child? He put Melissa back in her crib and decided he would keep a close eye on her. As always, time would tell.

  He turned around and heard a loud meow coming from right in front of him which startled him. “Froggy! Hey, buddy!” Arnesto said as he knelt down to pet the most talkative cat of all time. “And where’s your brother? There he is. Hey, Schmedley!” Schmedley was larger than his brother (as well as their two littermates) and lighter colored as well. He was also more reserved, only deigning to meow when he not only wanted attention but deemed it an urgent matter.

  Getting these cats had been one of the most critical moments for Arnesto to recreate. He had looked forward to it for years. He smiled as he remembered how easy it had been. All he had needed to do was wait for his coworker to send the email that she was looking for homes for her new kittens, walk into the conference room, and take them home. Katrina, who had wanted cats for a long time, had been overjoyed and had named the little one Froggy for no reason at all. Arnesto had named the bigger one Schmedley to “take him down a notch.” Now they were back in his life and he knew they would give the whole family years and years of joy.

  Yes siree, Bob, if there were guidelines to reliving one’s life in an alternate universe, one of them had to be: “Make sure to reacquire any beloved pets!”

  Arnesto returned to bed and when he reawoke, Katrina had already left for work, dropping Melissa off at daycare along the way. Arnesto still felt tired, though, and this was unfortunate as he was about to have a very long day.

  There was no telling what might trigger Arnesto’s memory, allowing him to recall some future event. It could be something small, like a word or an image, or something big, like a disaster. Today, it was breakfast.

  While Arnesto poured milk into his cereal, he noticed the picture of the lost child on the back, a little boy named Cyrus Mosher. Try as he might, Arnesto couldn’t remember any details about Cyrus. This was the first he had heard of him. Still, while he ate, he focused on Cyrus’s picture and tried to remember if he had any information about other missing children he could leak to the police.

  He went through his mental catalog of newsworthy kidnappings. Angie Daniels had already been found. Lino Banes was another high-profile victim, but try as he might, Arnesto couldn’t recall any information about him.

  Then there was Violet Gordon.

  Arnesto froze mid-chew. Violet was currently missing and he knew where she was. Sort of.

  In his past life, he and Katrina had taken numerous day trips to Napa Valley to tour the vineyards. On one of those trips, one that wasn’t scheduled to happen for a few more years, Arnesto was going to take a wrong turn and get them temporarily lost.

  When Violet was found, many years after that, the news would show the house where she had been held and abused for the majority of her life. All Arnesto could remember was watching the news report and realizing they had driven by a house that looked suspiciously similar during their unexpected detour.

  In other words, he remembered remembering seeing a house that they may have seen... while lost.

  He finished eating and getting ready, left a voicemail for his boss that he was calling in sick, and hit the highway.

  Less than two hours later, he was in wine country. He wanted to retrace his steps but wasn’t sure which steps to retrace. He ruled out wineries he had seen recently, but that still left several potential starting points. He marked them on a map and began the arduous task of driving to each one, then heading back out of town, looking for places where he might make a wrong turn. As navigationally challenged as Arnesto was, the routes out of these wineries were too simple — they only had a few, well-marked turns onto major roads to get visitors back onto the main highway.

  He tried some other wineries in the area to no avail. He also tried expanding his search, but still no luck. It was time to call in the big guns.

  “Hey, Katrina.”

  “Hey, Babe.”

  “I might have to stay late again tonight. Also, I was talking to one of the guys at work about wineries. I can’t remember — which ones did you like best?” She mentioned a few of the ones he had already covered. “Okay, are there any he should avoid?”

  “No, not really. I guess it depends on his taste more than anything.”

  Thanks, honey, you’re a big help. “Are there any still on your wish list?” She mentioned a few, including one he hadn’t been to yet that day. Aha, a lead. “Alright, thanks, Sugarmuffin!”

  “You’re welcome! Hey, maybe he and his wife would like to join us next time. Is he married?” she asked.

  Is my fictitious wine buddy married? “Nah, I don’t like him that much.”

  “He can’t be that bad if you’re getting all this information for him.”

  “Ngh… I… you know…” Arnesto stammered.

  “Well, if you respect him at all, don’t tell him about Arnucci’s.”

  “What?! Just because your spaghetti was soggy one time—”

  “Sorry, babe, I have to go. Love you!” she said, hanging up without waiting for him to reply.

  There was nothing wrong with Arnucci’s. It was a small, old-fashioned Italian restaurant that served delicious food, especially after a long, hard day of tasting wine. And the bread, sweet jumping Jesus, the bread, so soft and warm… The hell with it. He was in the area. Might as well eat there without her.

  The sun was starting to set when he pulled into the strip mall parking lot. He smiled as he parked right in front of the entrance, then got out of his car and went up to the door, which to his surprise, was locked. He tugged again, but it didn’t move. He looked around and saw the business hours in the window.

  Closed Tuesdays?! Who does that? Who closes Tuesdays?! “This is bullshit!” he said to no one. Hungry and dejected, he got back in his car and looked at the map to reassess. He didn’t know what else there was to eat around there. He could take a guess on the next winery havin
g some sort of deli, or since he was close, get back on the main highway.

  Only he wasn’t close. As the crow flies, the highway was ten minutes away. In a vehicle taking the optimal route, closer to twenty. For a navigationally challenged driver deciding to take a “shortcut” that looked like it lead to the highway but instead got the driver lost, at least fifty.

  It wasn’t a wrong turn from the winery. It was a wrong turn from Arnucci’s!

  He quickly started the car and headed for the “shortcut.” It wasn’t hard to retrace his steps; there wasn’t much choice but to stay on the main road with only the occasional side street that looked like it led nowhere. Eventually, the road he was on ended at a crossroad. Heading west didn’t feel right and also went the wrong direction, so he turned east. There were only a couple more houses before the barren land ended at the trees behind the dead end. He turned around and started heading back, scrutinizing every homestead along the way.

  None of them looked right. They were the right type, and Arnesto felt like he was literally in the neighborhood, but none of them were quite the one. That’s when he realized he wasn’t tracing his path exactly. He turned around again and headed back toward the dead end. Only this time, instead of driving all the way, he pretended he was actually trying to find the freeway and turned around at the point one could see that this particular road led nowhere.

  As he made the first point of a three-point turn, he saw it. From his current spot, parked perpendicular to the road, he was able to look past the side of the house on his left, and, through a small clearing in the trees, see the house he’d been looking for. It was off one of the side streets.

  He completed the turn, headed back the way he originally came, and drove down the first side street he found. He got a chill when he saw the house up close. Though still not positive, it looked awfully like the house he remembered from the news. It was not a good neighborhood. There was nowhere he felt comfortable parking and though the plots of land were large, the houses looked run-down and unfriendly. He imagined people with raised eyebrows peeking out from behind curtains watching him creep through their neighborhood. Someone was likely to respond to a strange car parked on the street.

  He went back to the main road and turned down the next side street. Besides looking for a spot to park, he wanted to check out the house’s backyard where Violet was likely being kept. No luck: still no place to park, and no access to the yard.

  He wanted to go home. He was tired and still hadn’t eaten, though his hunger was offset by his anxiety. He had the address now. He just had to find a pay phone and make an anonymous call. The only problem was he still wasn’t sure it was the right house. If it wasn’t, at worst, the police would show up and scare the crap out of some innocent elderly couple. Even so, Arnesto’s anal-retentiveness wouldn’t let him leave. As he debated this in his mind, he once again returned to the dead end and parked, killing the engine and turning off his lights.

  After waiting a few minutes, he stepped outside into the warm, dusty air. Though it was dark out and only a partial moon, there was hardly any light pollution and no cloud cover. He could see well enough, but it also meant he could be seen. Fortunately, there was nobody around. The people in the nearest house probably wouldn’t notice him from this distance, especially if he stuck to the woods on the edge of their property.

  He slunk through the woods quickly, making sure not to stray too far from the edge lest he get bitten by something large and venomous. Once he made it to the side street, he was able to stay hidden as he passed the house in question in order to survey their back yard. It looked more like a junkyard. There was an ancient rusted Chevy truck on cinder blocks, stacks of worn out tires, a swing set that looked like a strong gust would knock it down, some faded lawn ornaments, and lots of tarps covering firewood and who knows what else.

  And a shed. That’s where she would be. Maybe.

  His heart racing, he took a few deep breaths in a misguided attempt to calm himself. The fence enclosing the backyard wasn’t too high, so he was able to jump over using a post as support without making much noise. He then scuttled behind the shed where he couldn’t be seen. He waited a bit, but the house remained dark, so he peeked around the edge of the shed, then crept around the side of the shed to the front.

  There was a latch on the door, but no lock, only a wire hanger bent into a U-shape inserted upside-down through the latch. If Violet was indeed inside, would the kidnappers be this careless? Maybe they were just lazy. It was certainly easier than fumbling with a lock if you were drunk or hooked on meth and in the mood to do unspeakable acts to an innocent little girl. Assholes.

  Okay, open the door, take a quick peek, then run back to the car. One, two, THREE. He removed the hanger and pushed open the door enough to squeeze inside. Please don’t let there be a silent alarm. Even in the darkness, he could tell there was very little in there. Broken old lawn mowers and other junk, nothing of value.

  Using his flip phone as a light source, he kept it low and out of line of sight to the house. He did a quick but thorough scan and didn’t see anything. He took another couple steps inside to make sure he covered every corner. There was nothing behind the door or elsewhere save a small tarp in the back right corner. He snapped his phone shut and turned back toward the door. Then he froze.

  Had he seen a foot under the tarp? He stepped back and looked toward the tarp, but had to reopen his phone for light. It was still hard to see. He peered closely at the edge of the tarp where he thought he had seen the foot, but if he had, it wasn’t there now. The rest of the tarp was obscured by one of the dead lawn mowers, so he leaned in and slowly scanned upward from the bottom of the tarp to the top.

  When at last his eyes met hers, he nearly screamed.

  Unexpected Company

  Napa Valley, California

  Thursday, July 17, 1997

  9:30 p.m.

  “Who are you?” came a hushed, young voice.

  He stared at her in silence for a few seconds, though it felt like much longer.

  “Violet Gordon? I’m going to call the police and get you out of here. They’ll be here soon, okay?”

  “No, you have to get me out of here.”

  “I will, I’m calling the police.”

  “No! They won’t help,” she said.

  “What do you mean? They’ll save you.” Arnesto was confused and not thrilled to be having this conversation.

  “They came before. I’ve seen them come to the house at least twice. They never come out to the back yard,” she said.

  That’s right. The police had mishandled the case. The kidnappers, Len and Ceola Cornett, were already on police files for other crimes related to children in their past. The police came by to check up on them from time to time but weren’t thorough enough. However, they were only doing routine checks at the time. Surely if they got an emergency call about a child locked in a shed…

  “Please, get me out of here,” Violet said again. “Please. Please.” It was her eyes. They reminded him so much of his daughter’s. How could he turn her down?

  “Okay, let’s go,” he said.

  “I can’t... look.” She uncovered her legs from the tarp and showed him the steel cable connecting a metal shackle securing her left ankle to a spike embedded in the floor.

  “Fuck,” he said, wincing at the realization he had just sworn in front of a child. Then again, after all she’d been through, one little f-bomb probably wasn’t going to hurt. He examined and pulled on the cable, but it didn’t budge. He looked around for something he could use, but for fairly obvious reasons, there wasn’t a hacksaw lying around. “Where’s the key?”

  “Inside the house, probably. They might catch you, though.”

  “I need a tool and I don’t have one. Violet, I don’t see another option. I have to go call the police.”

  “No, I want to go with you.” Again with the eyes. “There’s a hardware store in town. Mr. Cornett goes there sometimes.”

>   “You want me to leave you, go buy a tool, and then come back and hope we don’t get caught?”

  “If the police come, there could be a shootout and they might lose. Then Mr. Cornett will either kill me or take me some place else. Please, Mister.” She had thought this through. Still, it didn’t mean her plan was good. Under normal circumstances, he would have already been calling in the cavalry from a safe distance. However, her plan had another benefit: he could maintain his anonymity.

  “Okay. Wow. If I’m not back in… thirty minutes, call 911 and tell them everything. Do you know the address here?” he asked, pulling a burner out of his pocket. He opened it and handed it to her.

  “Yes,” she said, before reciting it. Then she shut the burner and shoved it back into his hand. “But if it gets to the point I need to call 911, it’s too late. If they catch me with that, I’ll be in even worse trouble. Please hurry,” came her hushed voice from the dark. Arnesto heard the rustling of the tarp, presuming she had already covered herself back up.

  “I’ll be back as quick as I can, I promise,” he said as he stepped outside and replaced the hanger.

  He really hoped the hardware store stayed open until ten o’clock. He was already cutting it close. If he was late, or they closed any earlier, so help him, he was going to break in and run like a madman down every single aisle until he found something he could use. He could not let that little girl spend one more minute in that shed than was absolutely necessary. He already felt like shit for leaving her.

  Traffic was pretty light in town. Judging by the neighborhood, it seemed unlikely the residents had bustling social lives. He arrived at the hardware store at 9:55. As he got out of the car and rushed toward the entrance, he made it to the sidewalk and froze.

  There was a payphone on the corner.

  One little phone call. All he had to do was pick up the receiver, dial 911, disguise his voice, and tell them Violet Gordon was chained up in a shed behind the Cornett residence, and give them the address. It was the smarter play.