My Soul to Keep

By Ronee Renee

"Novelist Ronee Renee has a natural instinct for shadowed storytelling. A Soul to Keep is a fast-paced, shivery tale, yet its characters always seem caring and real. I particularly loved the ending." Rebecca Singleton, author of the novel, Jersey Blue

"Mommy, help me!" Four years after Amanda Davidson's son Robbie was abducted from their back yard, and found strangled, his helpless cries still haunt her dreams. Her waking life has been reduced to an apparently endless hunt for his killer. When a similarly brutal crime occurs in a small town only six hours from her home, Amanda journeys north to a picturesque village at the foot of the Adirondack Mountains, where a sadistic killer has not finished his work. Embroiled in the dynamics of the town, she finds love, passionate and unexpected. The killer strikes again. A four-year quest will culminate at the end of a lonely mountain road on a moonless night, as Amanda finds she has underestimated the depth of betrayal. The mistake may cost her the life of another child.

"The allure of Renee's elegant plotting, the play of her ideas and the engaging suspense, kept me firmly hooked from beginning to end."
--Joanne Michaels, author of The Joy of Divorce and Living Contradictions

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Nov 10, 2003
• ISBN: 9781414019925

Ronee Renee

Ronee Renee lives in a small hamlet in the Catskill Mountains of upstate New York, where she is currently working on her new novel.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

One minute he was there, building his castle in the sand box. The next he was gone.

She didn’t panic. He could just be out of sight. Amanda walked to the kitchen door, swung it open and called his name.

Robbie, Robbie, hon, where are you?

She looked around the yard, but it was empty and silent. She ran around the corner and down the walkway toward the front of the house. Her heart started to beat faster. The gate was open.

Robbie, come to Mommy.

She ran out to the front yard, looked to the right and her heart caught in her throat. A blue sedan was parked near the curb, two houses down the street. Amanda ran toward it as it started to pull away. She could see a small head bobbing in the front seat and a man behind the wheel. She ran faster, the car stalled. She felt her throat closing, barely able to contain the lump that had formed. Tears stung her eyes. Sweat dripped down the sides of her face, and formed pools under her arms.

Please, oh God, please, she thought, let me catch up. The car jerked forward and started to roll slowly away from the edge of the sidewalk. Amanda ran as fast as she could. She couldn’t catch her breath, yet she moved even faster. Her hand touched the rear fender; she inched up closer on the passenger side. She could see Robbie clearly now. His tear stained face was pressed against the window. He was screaming. Just a little bit further. Her lungs were on fire. She grabbed the door handle. The car was propelling her forward. A few more inches. I can do it. They were almost to the STOP sign at the corner. Illogically she thought, he has to stop for that. I can open the door then. Her ankles felt like they had lead weights tied to them, the soles of her feet burned, but she kept running. At the intersection her fingers grabbed the passenger door handle. She could see the lock in the up position. A car screeched, the sedan bucked and she heard, rather than felt, the metal hit her body.

*****

She awoke, bathed in sweat. Her nightgown and the sheets drenched. She was not surprised that after all this time, she still had the dream.

Everyone told her-Robert, her family, her friends, the psychiatrist-it would get easier over time. Amanda wondered how they defined easier, how they defined time.

Four years ago, she thought it meant forever or maybe never. Now, she wasn’t so sure. She had good days. Days when she didn’t think about him for hours. Days when she could look at a small boy without feeling her heart stand still and the tears well. Days when a child’s laughter didn’t remind her of sand castles and chocolate chip cookies and warm, sweet kisses.

Robert was gone now, too. For a time they were both numb. They agreed there was no fault, so there were no recriminations.

While her dream allowed her to fantasize, to see his abductor, to feel the cold metallic of the car, in reality, they never knew what happened-one minute he was there, the next he was gone.

Amanda replayed those last minutes over and over; hoping to find answers, dreading she would find blame instead.

She had been working in the kitchen that day. She looked out the window and saw that Robbie was engrossed with his sand castle. She laughed at the look of it. Huge turrets rising out of a pancake thin frame, surrounded by a moo as Robbie called the moat. She knocked on the glass and gave him a small wave. He looked up momentarily, but was soon back to his project. The yard of their Queens row

house had its own moat. A high wooden slat fence, with a heavy-duty gate and slide bolt latch. Robbie was only four and a half, but he was a true child of the city. Never talk to strangers, never get into cars. Never leave the yard, never, never, never. And of course, Amanda never let him out of her sight for long. In supermarkets, he navigated from the basket seat. In malls she held his hand tightly. He was always strapped into his car seat, even when it was for only one block. Amanda wasn’t paranoid, she was simply cautious. Dr. Spock provided the assurances for crankiness, sleeplessness and lack of appetite; the daily newspapers provided the motivation to be ever watchful and diligent. She listened to both.

The smell of fresh baked chocolate chip cookies filled the kitchen. Robbie’s favorite. The last batch sat cooling on a rack. She decided to let him stay outside a few more minutes while she straightened up the rest of the house. She walked through the rooms, picking up clothes and toys that always seemed to find their way downstairs. It was her habit never to go upstairs empty handed. It saved so much time and effort. I have time to run upstairs, she thought, put everything in its proper place and be back downstairs to get his milk and cookies ready.

She opened Robbie’s closet and stacked the toys, neatly. She was almost to the top of the landing, when she heard the crash. Robbie has too many toys-they don’t even fit in the closet anymore. She ran to the closet, restacked the toys and made her way downstairs. She would always wonder what if the toys didn’t fall, what if I didn’t go back. Robert never voiced his accusations, but they hung in the air between them, poised to attack at a moment’s notice. But all of her what ifs towered over his, and always would.

*****

It was a Saturday, so Amanda could linger in bed. Sometimes when she had the dream, she would lie there afterwards and try to remember the good that was her life when Robbie was alive.

She could still hear him call her his pet name, Mandi-mom. When she concentrated, she could see his head bent over his legos, building one of his famous castles.

One rainy Sunday morning, when he was a little over two, he rummaged through her shelves and found an old coffee-table book on Irish houses and castles. From that moment on, they were all he would build. Sometimes out of cookie dough, when nothing else was available or he was bored with his blocks.

She reprimanded herself. She would get up, shower, dress and call Gail. They would find something to do on this beautiful June day. Summers in New York were a wonderful mixture of cool, scent filled mornings and scorching afternoon heat. Heat that could bake you. In Manhattan, where Amanda worked, during the summer the heat would bounce off the buildings and rush up at you from the pavement with an intensity that could take your breath away. Stepping out of the shower, she quickly dressed in a pair of jeans and white chambray shirt. The cotton felt cool next to her skin. She piled her chestnut hair on top of her head and fastened a flowered comb beneath it. She didn’t want to wear makeup. She always wore suits and conservative dresses for work as a legal secretary. Always wore her hair pinned back in a chignon and usually wore only light makeup. Just a hint of aquamarine eye shadow to pick up the green in her hazel eyes, a touch of mascara, some blush and lipstick. She felt if it took more than seven minutes to apply her makeup, she had too much on. She was pretty in a sort of ethereal, wistful way. Her high cheekbones, small rounded chin and wide set eyes were framed by a heart shaped face. Robert had always told

her she was beautiful, but that probably didn’t count. Husbands were supposed to feel a sense of pride about their spouses’ looks. It was included in the marriage contract, right? Weekends she enjoyed wearing her hair in a ponytail or in a knot on her head, and no makeup.

When Gail arrived shortly before 11:00, Amanda was ready to go. Gail was dressed in her usual Saturday get up. An A-line jean skirt and cotton blouse. She rarely wore pants, preferring not to camouflage her ample hips, and against the accepted fashion advice, wore skirts. Never one to be in search of a new diet to take off those elusive 10 pounds, which through the years had climbed to 25, Gail was comfortable with her body and herself.

She was, like Amanda, a divorcee. But unlike Amanda, she had never had children. It wasn’t a question of choice, just the roll of the dice. She was fond of saying she felt very much like a surrogate mother, due to the kindness of sisters and friends, who gladly shared their children with her.

Gail had soft, blond hair that she wore waved to her shoulders and occasionally, like today, stuffed under a large floppy hat.

She and Amanda had met soon after Robbie’s death, in the waiting room of their psychiatrist. Gail had

finally shed her abusive husband and was seeking help in breaking the patterns that always seemed to lead her in that direction.

Amanda was there to begin a healing process.

Gail was such a good friend, Amanda thought. She wasn’t judgmental and always made sure before she spoke, her opinion was wanted. They had grown close in the past four years. After Robbie’s death, many friends, feeling they didn’t know what to say or do, said and did nothing. It was hard enough when she and Robert were together, but after the divorce, Amanda had few people to turn to for an occasional shoulder to cry on.

But Gail was always there for her. Wonderfully generous, and considering her abused background, an amazing optimist.

So what mall do we hit today? Gail said hopefully. She loved to shop. Her greatest joy was in finding the one item on sale in her size with no imperfections.

Amanda had picked up the paper in front of her door as Gail entered.

Well, let’s see who’s having early summer sales. Oh, there’s fresh brewed Hazelnut coffee and homemade cinnamon rolls in the kitchen. Help yourself.

Thanks, you know how I love your cinnamon rolls, Gail said as she walked purposefully to the back of the house.

Within a few minutes Amanda joined her at the table, poured a second cup of coffee for herself, and proceeded to scout the ads.

If it had not been for the Lord and Taylor ad featuring beautiful sundresses, Amanda would never have noticed the small article. As she read it, her face turned pale, her palms started to perspire. She had trouble breathing. Gail looked over at her.

Hey, what’s wrong? Amanda, Amy hon, what’s the matter? Amanda could not reply. Instead she pointed to the article and let Gail read it.

Warm Springs, NY: Eight year old Kevin Albright was found yesterday morning in a wooded area, four miles from his home. Kevin had been missing for two days when his body was found. The county medical examiner would report only that he appeared to have been strangled, but until conclusive tests were done, would not be able to confirm the cause of death or whether the child had been sexually molested. Sheriff Lester Nettleton would not comment on suspects, saying, only that a full-scale investigation was underway. Sheriff Nettleton would also not comment

on a report that the child’s wrists were

bound with a coaxial cable tied in a Boy

Scout knot.

Oh Amanda, honey, I know those stories upset you. Why do you read them?

You don’t understand, Gail. Robbie’s wrists were tied with a coaxial cable, in a Boy Scout knot. That was a fact the police didn’t release to the media.

Gail looked momentarily puzzled, but then her eyes opened wider and she drew in her breath.

You don’t think the two deaths are connected? That doesn’t really make sense. It’s been four years and Warm Springs is 6 hours north of here. It’s probably just a coincidence.

But suppose it’s not? Suppose they’re connected in some way? I’m going to call Lt. Siporowski. He was the detective in charge of Robbie’s case. He can get in touch with the sheriff in Warm Springs and tell him about Robbie.

CHAPTER 2

Siporowski here.

Hello, Lt. Siporowski. This is Amanda Davidson.

The detective hesitated a moment trying to connect the name to a case. Mrs. Davidson, how are you?

I’m okay, but something’s come up concerning Robbie’s case. And I thought you should know about it.

Siporowski was a twenty-year veteran of the New York City Police Department. Fifteen of those years were spent in homicide. He had seen everything, but it still never ceased to amaze him-the things people did to each other. Some in the name of love, or what passed for love in their warped minds, some in the name of greed, and many for just the hell of it.

He sat back in his chair. He remembered the Davidson case. He had worked child kidnappings before. They were evil at its worst. Even when the child was returned unharmed, normalcy was no longer a word in the family’s vocabulary. And when the child was found dead, or molested, it was as devastating as it gets. Unlike some families who never knew what happened, at least, the Davidsons were able to bury their little boy. They could find some comfort, he thought, in the knowledge Robbie was not molested and did not suffer. He was found a week after the abduction in a vacant lot near La Guardia airport, strangled. The medical examiner determined that he was killed within hours of his abduction. The killer was never found. There was only one witness, but she couldn’t give an accurate description of the kidnapper, and the killer left no clues, except one. And that led nowhere. Siporowski had children of his own and these cases always got to him. Not on a law enforcement level, but in his gut, where his feelings lay hidden. It was hard to be a good detective if you got emotionally involved with your cases; it was hard to be a good human being if you didn’t. He always did. Screw the police manuals. He knew that many of his colleagues felt the same way. The public always perceived them as cold hearted and distanced, suspended above the sewers they worked in. But although John Siporowski worked in sewers, he’d be damned if he would act like it.

‘Why don’t you tell me about it, Mrs. Davidson."

Have you seen today’s Newsday? she asked.

Yeah, I skimmed the sports pages and the front page. Hold on a second, let me get it.

When he returned to the phone, Amanda told him what had caught her attention. He turned to the article she mentioned and read through it quickly.

That’s interesting, but I wouldn’t get my hopes up if I were you. It could be just a weird coincidence.

I know, but would you look into it?

Sure, no problem.

The child was frightened. Why was this happening to him? He was trying to be brave, but he wanted his mother. If you come get me, Mommy, I’ll be so good. I’ll never fight with Jimmy, I promise. The monster, for that was what the boy thought he was, walked toward him.

I just want to be your friend. You know I would never hurt you. We’re pals aren’t we? And pals are nice to pals.

He was close to the boy now. He bent down and touched his leg, then carefully, slowly worked his hand up along his thigh. The boy closed his eyes. Just think of going to the Big Seven, he thought. Yeah, my mom is taking us to the Big Seven Amusement Center on Saturday. His eyes stung from pressing them shut so tightly.

The boy opened his eyes and, in a moment of bravado, pushed the man away. I’ll tell on you, I will. I’ll tell my mom. She’ll fix you.

The man hesitated for a moment. He shook his head. I don’t think so. You know what happens to squealers, don’t you?

Without waiting for the boy to respond, the man got up and walked into the other room.

The boy hated this house. It was dirty, full of mice and bugs and who knew what else. It had been abandoned since before he was born, and everyone had stories to tell about it. The neighborhood children never dared to enter the house. It was supposed to be haunted. They would throw rocks at the windows, and a few braver ones would walk around the property, and when they were really feeling brave, would peer in the windows.

It wasn’t long before the man returned. He was holding something small in his hand. It was squirming the boy could tell. He came closer and knelt down on the mattress next to the child. Then the boy could see the man was holding a kitten. It was gray and white and, not sensing danger yet, looked playful and alert.

The man petted the kitten and asked the boy, Do you like cats?

The boy didn’t reply.

The man asked