COME AND GET ME
A CAITLIN BERGMAN NOVEL
AUGUST NORMAN
To those on the bottom, looking up: You are not alone.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This novel, and the one and only Caitlin Bergman, came to life thanks to the love, support, and daring of a whole village of professionals, friends, and family—all of whom deserve a standing ovation, open bar, and/or lifetime supply of pizza, depending on their personal preference.
My agent, Eric Myers, had the patience and prescience not only to see a diamond in the rough, but to stick with me until the manuscript was polished and shiny. A million thanks—and sushi at SugarFish—and tacos at El Sitio—for making my dream a reality.
My editor at Crooked Lane Books, Chelsey Emmelhainz, was the first complete stranger to fall in love with Caitlin Bergman. Her notes and suggestions, as well as the hard work of the rest of the amazing team at Crooked Lane, transformed a nearly there manuscript into this finished book in your hands.
My trusted beta readers, including those brave souls who conquered the sizable original drafts, put up with typos, sloppy imagery, and radical misspellings, and still provided insightful and constructive criticism (apologies if I’m missing anyone): Travis Betz, Shulie Cowen, Charli Engelhorn, Ara Grigorian, Jeremy Kryt, Christine Logsdon, Derek Miller, Ward Roberts, Hilary Ryan Rowe, Wes Rowe, Rebecca Stevens, and Robin Winter.
In 2011, I attended my first writer’s conference—the Santa Barbara Writer’s Conference. Between the workshops, guest speakers, happy-hour appetizers, and late-night pirate sessions, I found a family of established and aspiring writers who encouraged me at all stages, including, but in no way limited to Lorelei Armstrong, Barnaby Conrad III, Avery Faeth, Toni Lopopolo, Matthew Pallamary, Andrea Tawil, Laura Taylor, Robin Winter, my wolf pack of Ara Grigorian, Chase Moore, and Trey Dowell—and, of course, the powers who bring the magical week together every year, Grace Rachow and Monte Schulz.
In addition, Ara Grigorian and Janis Thomas’s Novel Intensive helped me pare a sprawling plot down to a compact and marketable story. On the subject of Ara Grigorian, whose name has already appeared three times, I cannot thank him enough for the many hours spent delving into this challenging industry and for his support from inception to publication. Together, we will keep Porto’s in business.
Likewise, author and journalist Jeremy Kryt has supported me from college until now, spending hours exploring life and the literary world over email exchanges, phone calls, and Skype sessions, even while embedded with foreign armies or autodefensas in South and Central America. Thanks for your friendship, wisdom, and the use of your MFA by proxy. Actor-writer-producer Derek Miller has also been beside me since my sophomore year. I can’t imagine my path without his talent, advice, and sense of humor.
The character of Caitlin Bergman began in a screenplay in 2007. Although based on several of the strongest people this author has known, the part was written specifically for my college friend—and later Broadway, TV, and film actress as well as wife and mother—Karen Walsh Rullman. Whenever I write a line of Caitlin’s dialogue, Karen’s voice fights on.
Unlike Caitlin Bergman, I’ve been blessed with fabulous parents and a supportive family who love the arts, problem solving, and a mean game of Clue. Thanks Norm, Barb, Pete, Cami, Logan, Zach, and the extended Norman-Michalek-Rusnak-Thoemings for all of your support—despite the swearing! Same goes for my in-laws, Jim and Ruthann, and all of the extended Stevens-Burns, who weren’t quite sure what I meant when I said I wrote crime fiction. Thanks for being more proud than scared.
Indiana University, the city of Bloomington, the Bloomington Police Department, and the FBI all play parts in this fictional episode of Caitlin Bergman’s life. Although all four have dealt with horrible real-world events, in no way is this work meant to denigrate the hard-working police officers, federal agents, college professors, or local businesses of a beautiful college town. This Indiana native and IU alum chose the idyllic location to show that suffering is universal and that no one place is immune from corruption and abuse, no matter how lovely. My longest lasting friendships began in and around the creative jewel of the Midwest and continue to this day.
This work also touches on sexual assault, drug use, trauma, and psychology. My personal therapist, Annie Armstrong, was instrumental in the handling of this material, but in no way does this author claim ownership or expertise in the subjects presented. If you or someone you know is suffering, please seek help from a trained professional.
Finally, actor-comedian-writer Rebecca Stevens, also known as my wife, has been my inspiration, harshest critique partner, and biggest fan. Thank you for understanding that sometimes writing means searching for ways to commit murder, eating a basket of steak fries, or staring at a computer screen instead of doing laundry. Every day with you by my side is a sexy, fun-filled thriller, and every day without you is a mystery that must be solved.
CHAPTER
1
“I SEE THE WAY you look at girls,” his mother had said. “Like they’re toys. Like you want to own them.”
Almost ten years ago now, but the moment came back to him like the words to his favorite song, the way her lips wrinkled when she sucked the last of the menthol through her lipstick-coated Newport, the glazed-over stare from under her heavy, half-closed eyelids, the pointless, but repeated glances at the empty pill bottles on the table.
“You can’t own a woman. It’s like trying to control a river.”
After all this time, he still didn’t know if she’d intended the irony.
Hadn’t the pills owned her?
The men who sold them?
The creditors she couldn’t keep up with, the repo men she hid from or—worse—invited in for her barter system?
Wrong choice after wrong choice, man after man, time after time. Maybe if one of the sweaty many had guided instead of giving in, taught instead of getting in—maybe she’d still be alive.
He’d been too young to help then. Too unsure.
Now he was sure. Strong, patient, firm, responsible, understanding, and above all, disciplined.
Not only could he own a woman, he’d have one in his basement by the end of the week.
CHAPTER
2
“ARE YOU OKAY, Caitie? You look like you’ve been crying.”
Caitie. Forty-two years old and Mary Lubbers-Gaffney still called her Caitie, like two decades hadn’t passed since they’d stood in the same state.
Caitlin dabbed the last of the unexpected weakness from her eyes and motioned Mary into the hotel room. “Allergic to the Midwest, I guess.”
“Maybe the recycled plane air.”
“Probably.”
Rather than meet Mary’s unconvinced gaze, she studied time’s gifts to her old friend. Mary’s shoulder-length auburn tangle burned like a forest fire with a tinge of gray ash, and her smile flared like the match that set the blaze. Her power suit, assertive but feminine. Her makeup, flawless.
“You look good, Mary.”
“You too, Skinny. They don’t have carbs in LA?”
“I run a lot.”
“From what?”
The only way to knock the awkward out of the moment was to concede to the hug. Caitlin took off her sport coat, then raised both hands. Mary did the rest. Somewhere past a ten count, Mary released her, reached into a bag, and pulled out a red graduation gown and matching mortarboard.
“Ready for your big day?”
Caitlin slipped the satin robe over her dress shirt and ran a brush through her hair. Brown and straight, down to the chin. Good enough for journalism.
Mary presented lipstick. Nothing had changed. Back in college, Lipstick Lubbers wouldn’t go to a party without half an hour in f
ront of a mirror. Caitlin carried only powder and eyeliner, but rarely used either. She took the tube, puckered, dotted on a coat of Maybelline’s Rebel Bloom.
“Wow, that is exceptionally pink.”
Mary winked. “You’re single, right? Keep it. Might help you make a friend at the after-party.”
Caitlin made a note to trash the war paint at a less insulting moment, dropped the tube into her purse, and donned her pointy new cap.
“Lead the way, Dean Lubbers-Gaffney.”
Mary guided her out of the hotel and into the halls of the student union. An April evening in Indiana meant hot-blooded students wearing T-shirts and shorts—anything to tease the spring out of hiding after a white winter, even if the temperature only hovered in the sixties. Caitlin’s thin-blooded California body was thankful for the gown.
Mary paused at the entrance to a conference room. “Mind taking a few questions? My students need the practice.”
“You want me playtime-nice or full-on bitch?”
“Just be you.” She reached up, straightened Caitlin’s hat. “Well, try not to swear.”
They opened the doors to applauding students, faculty, and blue-haired literati. Mary walked to a podium and waited for the crowd to settle.
“Last year, for whatever reason, this esteemed university honored me with the title of Dean of the Media School. Since they’ve yet to come to their senses, I’m using my powers for good. Twenty years ago, a bright young student left campus four credits shy of graduation. Despite her lack of parchment, she went on to write award-winning investigative journalism for both print and broadcast media—”
With the crowd distracted, Caitlin wiped the pink lipstick on the sleeve of her gown.
“—and recently published a bestselling memoir about her work to expose corruption within the Los Angeles Police Department. Tonight, it is my pleasure to present the diploma she left behind. Please join me in congratulating our newest graduate, Caitlin Bergman.”
Caitlin fought off a surprising blush and joined Mary at the podium for the ceremonial tassel turning and honest-to-goodness paper diploma she’d never felt she’d needed. She rattled off the required acknowledgments, then pulled the mic closer.
“I understand we’ve got some aspiring journalists in the house.”
A young man’s hand shot up. “Mrs. Bergman—”
“Miss.”
“I’m sorry—Miss Bergman, where are you from?”
“Yikes. I don’t mean to be an”—she shot Mary a quick smile, chose a PG abbreviation—“a-hole, but do a web search for background info first. Who’s got a real question?”
Another hand, female this time. “Miss Bergman, with the decline of print journalism, what are our chances of finding a job after graduation?”
“Now we’re talking.”
She launched into a depressingly honest portrait of the modern world of journalism. Somewhere around the advice “learn to build phone apps or get into nursing,” Caitlin wound back toward hope. “Good writers who present unbiased truths will always find work, but don’t expect to strike it rich. Anyone else?”
A slight British accent broke through, the speaker a dark-skinned young woman. “Lakshmi Anjale from the Daily Student, Miss Bergman.”
Caitlin smiled. She’d spent most of college in the Daily Student editorial office. “Miss Anjale.”
“According to my research, this is your first return to campus in twenty years. With your successes, you could have come for a victory lap at any point. In fact, I understand you’ve been invited to lecture several times in the last decade. Why return now? Will you be working on a story while you’re in Bloomington?”
The young woman’s voice carried a weighted urgency, as if her question held an understood significance. Caitlin squinted against the glare of the lights but couldn’t read her facial expression. “I’m always working on a story, but I’m not here on assignment, if that’s what you’re asking. Something about your tone leads me to believe you have a specific follow-up question.”
The girl nodded. “Allow me to clarify. Are you planning to look for Angela Chapman while you’re in town?”
The name sounded familiar, but Caitlin couldn’t make an association. “No, my motives for being here are purely personal.”
She looked over at Mary, saw her twenty years earlier, the apartment they’d shared, the fun. A flash of her last week on campus scared the nostalgia away. She squeezed the mic like it wanted to run too.
“The diploma, for one thing. Quite an honor after all this time. I also promised my agent I’d sell a few books, so here’s a shameless plug for my signing tomorrow morning.”
She could stop there, excuse herself by being witty and polite, but something about the girl’s eyes said, Embrace the moment—and Mary had told her to be herself.
“You’re correct, though. I am working on something. You see, twenty years ago, a boy—” She looked down, noticed the university’s nearly two-hundred-year-old seal inlayed into the podium, returned to the mic. “Not a boy—a young man I knew and trusted took me to an abandoned limestone cutting facility five miles from here, raped me, and left me for dead. So I’ve returned to finish that story.”
She gripped the podium, well aware of the serious silence caused by her admission.
“Plus, Mary said there’d be wine and cheese.”
CHAPTER
3
MARY CAUGHT UP with Caitlin fifty feet from the safety of her hotel room. “I left as soon as I could. Is that really why you disappeared? Caitie, why didn’t you tell me?”
Caitlin kept walking. “You had the GRE, graduation, that Chris guy—pick one. Plus, I signed something.”
Mary matched her pace. “Who cares? Let’s talk about this.”
Caitlin slid her keycard into her door lock. The light went green. She turned back to her friend.
“I’m fine, Mary.”
Mary didn’t have to say anything. The pity on her face did the job.
“Okay, I’m not fine. Thought I was—apparently not.” She heard the mechanical whir of the lock, pushed too late. “Damn it.” She worked the keycard again, pushed the door open. “I went straight to the hospital, did the kit, called the cops, and left town. He did two of his four years, got out, then killed a family in a car accident—drunk driving, his fault. He’s back in prison where he belongs. So don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m a victim, because I’m not. I’m a badass.”
Mary sighed, laughed a little.
Caitlin wasn’t ready for the laugh. “What?”
“We haven’t even hit the bar, and you bust out college rape.”
Caitlin opened her mouth, found an unexpected chuckle of her own.
“I missed you, Mary. Give me five minutes, I’ll meet you upstairs.”
“I can make an excuse, Caitie. You don’t have to—”
“Five minutes, and we’ll all act like it never happened.”
Mary let her escape.
Safe in the room, Caitlin pulled off her ridiculous mortarboard and gown and slumped down against the door. Her jeans met paper.
“So much for framing your diploma, dummy.”
She sat forward, then remembered her diploma and a handful of other papers lay to her left, safe and unwrinkled. She reached behind her, found an unsealed, unmarked, letter-sized envelope. She opened the flap, pulled out a handwritten note in calligrapher’s cursive on hotel stationery, no signature.
You were very brave to come back to Bloomington, Caitlin Bergman. I will keep you safe.
Caitlin stood, pulled the door open. “Damn, Mary, that was some fast pen work—”
She looked both ways, saw no one. “And I’m talking to myself like a jerk.”
* * *
Seconds before the elevator doors opened, she heard the party. She straightened the black sport coat she’d thrown over her dress shirt and moved toward the sounds of inebriation wafting through an ominou
s set of walnut double doors. She checked the text message again.
Last door on the right before the party.
Easy enough. She exited through the door marked “Roof Access,” found an unoccupied- ten-by-ten balcony under the clear night sky.
She walked to the metal railing, filled her lungs.
Soil, grass, wet leaves—the scents left from daytime rain evoked images of textbooks spread out on blankets over bright green lawns. Nine stories up, she could see half of the campus. Glowing orbs of streetlights over concrete paths through hundred-year-old trees linked the art museum, the theater complex, and the limestone towers of the library. So much limestone. She’d forgotten the old world beauty of the soft mineral, a feeling she’d only seen reproduced in Washington, D.C., much of the material pulled from the same local quarries.
A male voice interrupted her solitude. “You beat me here.”
She turned to an older African American gentleman in a Kangol trilby-style hat and a rumpled sport coat. Even if she hadn’t known Scott Canton, his outfit would have introduced him as a poetry professor.
“Thank you so much for doing this, Scott.”
He joined her at the railing. “Not at all. It’s a pleasure to see you in person rather than merely hearing your charming voice on the other end of the phone.”
Caitlin had run into her old teacher ten years back at a writer’s conference at the University of Southern California. Not only had they kept in touch since, she’d quoted him as a source in two articles: the first, a piece about veterans using art to overcome post-traumatic stress disorder; the second, only six months back, an argument in support of using marijuana to treat PTSD as well.
Scott reached into the lining of his hat and produced two hand-rolled joints. “As requested.”
Caitlin stashed one in her purse and pulled out her lighter. “You’re saving my life. Care to join me?”
Scott looked back toward the door. “Regrettably, I should run. Well before you let me know you’d be in town, I promised a lady friend a weekend at Lake Monroe. Said lady waits below.”
Come and Get Me Page 1
