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“Camila, I want to take you somewhere safe. Somewhere no one can hurt you again.” I don’t even know where that is yet. The spinning inside my head goes full throttle and every move that comes next is entirely thought up as I go.
Taking her to her mother isn’t an option for a number of reasons that include me being a priest. I make a point not to meet with children unsupervised for a reason. I don’t need someone thinking things that would never happen. Things I could never prove otherwise.
I can’t call the police here, or the investigation will kick off before I’ve even had the chance to discard the body, and even if I stay, I’ll have to explain why I was here, which will force me to break the seal of confession.
This was self-defense.
Perhaps, one would argue, I shouldn’t have been here, but all signs pointed to Camila being kept inside this house. I had to see for myself. I had to try to save a child from the same fate as the Ames girl.
Camila emerges from the cage, her bony arms outstretched as she crawls out onto the concrete floor. Bruises and scratches mar her skin, and the two circular marks along her ribs are where I have to believe she was shocked with the prod.
As I reach for the muzzle, she rears back and flinches, then allows me to unfasten it from the back of her head. “I want you to stay here. I’m going to pull my car around to the door.”
With a frantic shake of her head, she lurches forward as if to grab hold of me, but stalls before she does.
“It’s okay, nobody’s coming for you.” I glance back at the man still lying on the floor behind me. “He’s dead.”
She breaks down sobbing, hiding her face in the palms of her hands. “Mama!”
“You’re going to see her again. I promise.” I reach out for her, only this time she doesn’t hesitate. She wraps her arms around me, her body shivering and cold to the touch.
As my memories taunt me, for a moment it’s not Camila in my arms, but Bella. Fragile and scared as the day I took her to the hospital to begin her chemotherapy. But strong, too.
I stroke Camila’s hair and lay a kiss to the top of her head. “I need to get my car. Can you be brave and stay here?”
I feel her nod against me, and when I pull away, her fingers curl into my arms for a tense moment, and then release me.
I push up and jog across the garage toward the door, flip the lock on the inside knob, and heft it open onto the backyard. The driveway curves to the right, up the hill, and I follow to where it ends at the front of the house. Once inside my car, I back it down the drive, around the curve and into the garage. I search the house for a blanket to wrap around her and find one draped over a ragged-out couch.
Bundled in an afghan, she sits in the front seat, while I load the body into the trunk.
The dogs bark incessantly, goading me to hurry, as I run my flashlight over their kennels, noting full bowls of fresh water and food. If someone doesn’t report the barking within a few days, I’ll make an anonymous call to animal control.
Driving back through the city, my mind battles the guilt and shock while scouring my memories for the best means of disposing the body. Burning it will draw attention. The smell alone will lure the cops, since a body doesn’t exactly give off aburgers-on-the-grillscent. It’s much more foul, and I have to believe pedophiles stink the worst when they burn. Burying him will leave evidence at the scene of the crime, something the dogs might sniff out right away, the second someone opens up their cages. Best bet is to take him away from the scene. Water might be good, so long as he doesn’t wash up somewhere.
It’s while we’re passing Sam’s Septic Solution that the light bulb goes off in my head. A week ago, we had the septic at the church pumped for routine maintenance. It’ll be for another five years before we’ll need it pumping again, and by then, he’ll long be decomposed.
A fitting burial.
Though I am dedicated to my vocation and commitment to God, I am not immune to seeing the suffering and abuse of a child. As irrational as all this may be, I find it necessary, even at the cost of my own soul. Who knows what wretched ways the man planned to defile her. And if his story about Lia Ames is true, Camila might’ve ended up nothing but a pile of bones by week’s end.
Beside me, Camila devours one of two granola bars I keep in my glove compartment for days when I have back to back meetings. Rivulets of water leak down her face, as she tips back a bottle I gave her. Monster must’ve starved her in punishment, judging by the way she’s already tearing into the second granola bar.
I turn down Leroy Street, to a block lined with apartment buildings, an address provided by Camila .
I didn’t plan to take her home, and doing so might be asking for trouble, but there’s no other place I can imagine dropping off this poor child. No place she’ll feel safe, other than her mother’s arms.
She points to the building two blocks up, and I come to a stop at the curb.
“Forgive me, but I can’t take you any closer.” I feel despicable for making her walk the two blocks in nothing but an afghan, but I’d be putting myself in someone’s crosshairs—whether it be her mother’s, or the police, who’d eventually find a dead body in the trunk of my car. “No one can know that I helped you, okay? This has to be our little secret. Do you understand?”
After wiping the remnants of another gulped drink from her face, she nods, before her face turns somber and her gaze falls to her hands in her lap. “Thank you,” she whispers, and when her eyes find me, they hold the shine of tears.
“Go see your mother. She’s been looking for you. I’m going to watch you from here, and I won’t let anyone hurt you. I promise.”
She offers me a quick hug, but doesn’t waste any time clambering out of the vehicle. One block up, she throws a quick glance over her shoulder, but keeps on toward the building.
I duck low in the seat, watching the surrounding complex for any sign of movement, any chance someone else might happen upon her before she makes it home.
