Come and Get Me

by August Norman

  Could don’t mean should,

  but would won’t mean did

  —unless you let it.

  Otherwise, you’ll never forget it.

  Did it mean anything?

  Caitlin wasn’t sure, but her dad never failed to drop his duct tape mid-project to run to the hardware store for the right part, even when short on money or time.

  She could go back to LA in the morning, but it didn’t mean she should, and if she didn’t stay in Bloomington now, she never would. But she’d definitely never forget it.

  Caitlin tipped back her last bit of wine. “Okay, Mary, I’ll stay. Now less talk, more drinking.”

  * * *

  They passed out next to each other and slept until checkout. No makeup, suitcase in tow, Caitlin followed Mary three blocks south of campus to a yellow and white cottage on Park Street. Rough concrete steps led from the sidewalk to a wide front porch shaded by a giant oak tree, probably older than the seventy-year-old house.

  “Well, shit,” she said. “This is perfect.”

  After Mary left, Caitlin ordered Thai. When the last spring roll was gone, she powered up her laptop, opened her writing app, and began typing.

  Total word count after ten minutes: 752.

  Telling the story of her rape proved harder than she’d imagined. Every time she started, the images came. Troy Woods, the rough pieces of discarded limestone, the dried blood on her thighs.

  She tried a new sentence, found her hands shaking. She knew the caffeine in Thai iced tea could launch her heart rate into the stratosphere, but why the flop sweat? And the pressure against her chest? She pushed back from the table. Like the sweat and chest pressure, she recognized the overwhelming sound of blood rushing to her ears as one more symptom of a panic attack, and she wasn’t going to have one.

  She dropped onto the couch, gasping for air. Still too much pressure. She rolled off, crawled past the coffee table, felt the cool planks of polished hardwood.

  She sat back over her heels, closed her eyes, breathed in through her nose. She held the breath, then exhaled as slowly as possible, despite the rough pulses that came with uncontrollable shudders.

  Again.

  She rested her arms at her sides, inhaled, held a five count.

  Again.

  She’d yoga this away, drink this away. If necessary, get a hold of Scott Canton and smoke this away.

  Again.

  She finished an exhale, breathed normally, opened her eyes. Her pulse no longer banged in her temples.

  “There’s a reason people go to therapists,” she said aloud. She laughed, answered herself in a parrot voice. “Bawwwwwk. Yeah, cause they talk to themselves.”

  The advice she’d given to others, requested or not, seemed so obvious: If you’re smart enough to think the word “denial,” you’re smart enough to get help.

  She shut her laptop, grabbed her cell phone, and scrolled through her unread emails, happy for the distraction. Most could wait, but one stuck out. The sender: Lakshmi Anjale.

  Caitlin:

  I was thinking about an assignment we had last month regarding context, how personal stories are used in journalism to humanize larger issues. Obviously, you’re not the only woman to deal with sexual assault on a college campus. You know my agenda, but I don’t think the two issues need to be separate. I’d like you to meet Doris Chapman, Angela’s mother. Her perspective on the safety of women on college campuses might bring a modern touch to your own tragedy.

  Lakshmi continued with contact info and available scheduling. The girl’s plea read heavy-handed on the page, but she fought for her cause. Caitlin’s favorite part? Lakshmi’s inference that she hadn’t yet left town.

  Her finger hovered over the “Reply” button.

  If she said yes, the whole point of her trip would change. She’d meet the mother, hear the details, feel the pull. She’d been able to quit smoking, abstain from sex, even ditch booze when necessary, but when it came to a story no one else could tell, Caitlin fiended like any other junkie.

  She knew her own assault—beginning, middle, and end—but wasn’t sure she could write that story, let alone find an audience. This Chapman thing, though.

  Might be a book in it.

  Might even help someone.

  Couldn’t hurt to look.

  She shot a message to a neighbor about her plants and mailbox, then typed her reply to Lakshmi. Unlike trying to tap into her assault, the response flowed like a river.

  CHAPTER

  9

  10:13 AM. Thirteen minutes and still no sign of her.

  Maybe she’d picked a different route from what she’d run yesterday. Maybe she hated Mondays, took the day off from her workouts. Maybe she wouldn’t come.

  He undid his lightweight cycling helmet, scratched his scalp where the sweat beaded. Ten more minutes and he’d be in trouble. The mailman would pass and he’d be seen. Not his truck; he’d parked up a logging road, fifty feet around a corner, near the gate with the rusted-over padlock. Still, even the most disgruntled postal employee would notice a solitary cyclist standing over a mangled bike with blood streaked from his spandex shorts to his foot.

  Five more minutes and he’d give up.

  He exhaled, shuffled back and forth. He’d missed this feeling, the unbridled anticipation, the moments before the taking.

  “Don’t get excited,” he muttered, clicking his teeth together. Like he could control the sensation.

  His body sizzled like a downed power line. Every hair stood at attention, every nerve amped to receive. He rolled his shoulders back, slapped his hands together, stepped onto the country road’s asphalt surface, watched the bend that led uphill toward his position.

  A breeze rustled the trees, but he couldn’t hear any animals, not even birds. Made sense—nature knew a predator by scent. Humans were the only animals in the forest who’d grown complacent.

  Speaking of which.

  He put the helmet back on, snapped the clasp, then reached into his jersey pocket and pulled out the phone.

  She’d be two miles in. Nothing challenging for her athletic physique, but she’d strain against the incline.

  He clicked his teeth again, if only to stop them from chattering with the rush of adrenaline. The crisp pop of enamel on enamel competed with the heartbeat pounding on his eardrums.

  He let out a groan, bent over at his waist, and exhaled. The window was closing. Where was she?

  “Jesus, are you okay?”

  He turned around, saw Paige Lauffer in running gear approaching from behind him, coming downhill. She pulled an earbud out, tapped on the phone inside the strap around her bicep.

  He laughed. “You came from behind me. I didn’t hear a thing.”

  The young blonde walked closer, squinting against the sunshine. “Do you need help? You’re bleeding.”

  “Sorry.” He limped two steps in her direction, pointed to the remains of his bike. “I’m a little shaken. I wiped out pretty hard.”

  “Looks like. Did you break anything?”

  He’d loved Paige Lauffer’s voice since the first time he’d heard her speak, now over a month ago. Sweet and caring, like a TV mom.

  “I think I’m okay.” He held up his phone, moved closer. “Do you have a phone? Mine’s broken.”

  She nodded, reached for the Velcro of her armband.

  “See, Paige,” he said, now inches away. “The stupid thing won’t even turn on.”

  She raised her head. “How do you know my name?”

  He moved toward her. She may have heard the snapping noise of the personal defense stun gun disguised as a mobile phone he’d gotten online for twenty bucks, or may have only reacted to his movement and tried to pull back. Either way, the gun’s contacts met the sweaty, bare skin of her chest above her sports bra before she could put distance between them.

  Fourteen million volts in five seconds against the one-hundred-and-thirty-pound woman meant lights out—and twenty dollars well spent.

/>   CHAPTER

  10

  LAKSHMI RUSHED AHEAD of Caitlin to the front door of the three-story brick house and rang the doorbell. “Thank you for doing this.”

  “Stop thanking me, Lakshmi. I haven’t done anything.”

  Caitlin counted three gables, two cornices, some latticework. Different vibe from a Hollywood mansion, but the size and style of the Chapman home read Midwestern rich.

  “Here she comes,” Lakshmi said.

  Caitlin saw Doris Chapman approach through the window next to the doorframe. Even through the glass, she exuded power and wealth. A slight frost dusted her otherwise jet-black, straight hair. The quality of her sky-blue cardigan seemed more Manhattan boutique than the nearby mall. But when the door opened, Caitlin saw a woman in her mid-fifties who didn’t sleep.

  “Lakshmi,” she said, opening her arms.

  Lakshmi dove into the hug. The embrace looked like the real deal.

  Doris let go and held out her hand. “Thank you for coming, Miss Bergman.”

  Caitlin shook her hand. “You have a beautiful home, Mrs. Chapman.”

  Doris sighed. “A home is where your family lives. This is my hell.”

  * * *

  What had once been a basement home theater now housed the Find Angela Chapman headquarters. Couch, love seat, end tables—all shoved against a wall. White poster board covered any available wall space, and theories, suspicions, and questions covered the sheets of sturdy material like a science fair project no one wanted to work on.

  Caitlin began a slow walk around the room, noticed a section of photos and detailed entries under the heading “Time Line.”

  “It’s very—”

  “Manic?” Doris finished.

  Caitlin turned back. “I was going to say ‘thorough.’ What do you do for a living, Mrs. Chapman?”

  “Look for my daughter. I used to be a patent attorney for a pharmaceutical company in Indianapolis. I’ve had a hard time writing intellectual property arguments about erectile dysfunction since Angie disappeared. Seems so pointless.”

  Caitlin laughed loud enough for Lakshmi to turn in her direction.

  Doris smiled. “Thank God, someone finally laughed at that.”

  “Did you do all of this?”

  Doris nodded. “Me, Lakshmi, the Chapter.”

  “The Chapter?”

  The woman crossed the room to a computer and opened a browser. The words Chapman Chapter appeared above a discussion board. She scrolled through hundreds of posts.

  “Angie’s friends, amateur private eyes, retired law enforcement, and straight-up lunatics.”

  “The well-intentioned masses,” Caitlin said, her eyes on a board titled “Suspects.” She tapped on the two photos of young men hung directly below. “These two?”

  Doris nodded. “The last to see Angie. They lawyered up immediately.”

  Lakshmi joined in. “They’re the ones, Caitlin—Kieran Michelson and David Amireau.”

  Caitlin focused on the photo to the left, Kieran Michelson. She couldn’t tell if the brown-haired, lightly stubbled, blue-eyed man looked twenty-one or thirty-one. Either way, he could be a model, even in the lighting of the Bloomington Police Department. The other, David Amireau, had beady eyes, a hawk nose, and an abundance of dark moles on pasty white skin.

  Lakshmi gestured around the room. “If you look at our time line—”

  Caitlin turned away. “I’m not ready for all the facts.”

  Doris raised a hand. “Lakshmi, don’t scare her.” She arranged a pair of rolling chairs in front of the computer. “Please, Caitlin, sit with me.”

  They sat. Doris leaned in, gentle. “I understand you’ll be staying in Bloomington to work on a project.”

  Caitlin shook her head. Her three small words had turned into a full-on project. Might as well go with it. “Sort of a personal story, maybe another book.”

  “About rape.”

  “Sure,” Caitlin said, glancing at Lakshmi. “And other things.”

  “I was raped,” Doris said, all business. “Twenty-five years ago in Chicago. Want to hear the story?”

  Caitlin’s first reaction—God, no. The second after, she felt shame blush her cheeks. Doris didn’t give her time to answer.

  “Books, movies, TV shows, I can’t watch any of them if the R-word comes up. But I obsess about abduction. Perverts in vans, the Law and Order episodes about the heinous things done to kids, the women in your book.”

  “My book?”

  “Fallen Angels. A reporter working with the ex-cop she once sent to jail for corruption uncovers an underground prostitution ring run by LAPD officers.”

  “Wow,” Caitlin said. “Where were you when my publisher wanted a synopsis?”

  Doris continued, “I gobble up stories of abduction. Do you know why?”

  Caitlin nodded. “Because you want to believe Angela is still alive.”

  “Because I know Angie is still alive, Caitlin. I know it.”

  “What about your suspects?”

  “Yes, I suppose I should say I feel Angie’s still alive. The facts indicate that my daughter died of alcohol poisoning or a drug overdose. Both of those boys—her boyfriend and the other one—were into cocaine, pot, and God knows what else. Both Lakshmi and the police assume they panicked and disposed of Angie’s body. It’s the logical conclusion.”

  Doris rose to stand in front of a three-foot-high photo of Angela, the kind police would use at a press conference. “My husband thinks Angie’s dead. You don’t see his handwriting anywhere in this room, at least not on anything in the last year.”

  “Separated?” Caitlin said softly.

  “Not legally. He keeps an apartment near his office, claims it’s better on his commute. It’s really so he can move on, and I won’t let him do that here. Because someone, somewhere, knows what happened to Angie, and I’m going to spend every last second, dollar, and tear I have to find out.”

  She turned to Caitlin. “I don’t need you to find my daughter, Caitlin. The media stopped caring a year ago, the police ran out of options, and I’m too close to stop my bias from blurring my vision. I only ask you to look with fresh eyes.”

  Lakshmi put a hand on Doris Chapman’s shoulder. Doris covered the hand with her own and looked back to Caitlin.

  “We’re the only ones who still care, and she could be out there fighting all by herself. I won’t stop fighting until she tells me to.”

  * * *

  Lakshmi gripped the wheel more firmly than needed. “You won’t use any of our notes?”

  The drive from the south side of Indianapolis to Bloomington would take forty-five minutes, and they’d only gone five.

  “Lakshmi, I have a certain way I approach a story.”

  The deep valley of the girl’s furrowed brow relaxed into a flat plain. “Brilliant, how do you work?”

  “Alone. I trust no one, not even my own suppositions. Let’s face it: you’ve just shown me a wall covered in suspects. It’s going to be hard for me to ignore those faces and not assume they’re guilty.”

  “They are guilty.”

  “And that’s my point. You telling me they’re guilty doesn’t make them guilty. I’ve got to concentrate on what can be proven with facts.”

  “But I know things no one else knows, Caitlin.”

  Caitlin checked the car’s clock. Thirty-nine minutes left. Better let the girl talk.

  “Fine. What are you dying to say?”

  “Really?”

  “Go for it.”

  Lakshmi took a deep breath. “Kieran Michelson was not Angela’s boyfriend.”

  Of all the possible threads involved in Angela’s disappearance, Lakshmi’s chosen topic reminded Caitlin that the girl had only recently hit twenty-one. Time for a patient lead, casual and caring. “No?”

  “Everyone calls him Angela’s boyfriend—her mom, the cops, the press. They weren’t boyfriend and girlfriend. They just got drunk or high together, hooked up every once in a while.”


  Caitlin paced her. “Why is that important to you?”

  “Because it shows how little they knew her and how little they’ve tried to get to know her since.”

  “Her mom calls her Angie.”

  “Angela hated that. I love Doris, but she still sees her daughter as a thirteen-year-old. Kieran wasn’t her boyfriend, just a—” She stopped.

  Caitlin wanted more and knew the words to get there. “A fuck buddy?”

  Lakshmi blushed, looked away. “Yes, that.”

  “Did Angela have a lot of fuck buddies?”

  Lakshmi hesitated again.

  Caitlin tried a guess. “It’s college. Nothing too serious?”

  Lakshmi nodded. “She wasn’t a slut or anything. She was just trying out some things.”

  “What about you, Lakshmi? Do you have a boyfriend?”

  Lakshmi matched a serious headshake to her words. “No, not me.”

  “What about a fuck buddy?”

  Again, the emphatic head shake. “Nothing since Angela disappeared. No time.”

  “When will it be the right time?”

  “For a fuck buddy?”

  Caitlin really enjoyed Lakshmi’s accent. She felt tempted to see how many times she could make the girl say fuck buddy, but moved on. “For you to think more about your relationships than Angela’s.”

  Anger darkened the girl’s face. “I’ll move on when someone catches the monsters that took my best friend.”

  CHAPTER

  11

  NEAR CAMPUS, LAKSHMI stopped in front of the bars on Kirkwood Avenue. “Are you going to start working?”

  “It’s Monday afternoon. Don’t you have any classes?”

  “What do classes matter?”

  “Lakshmi, I will definitely need your help in the future, but please go to class.”

  Caitlin got out and walked to a Tibetan restaurant crammed into an old two-story house. She settled at an outdoor table, then noticed a familiar face.

  Scott Canton sat two tables away with a young man. His muscular companion wore an olive-green T-shirt tucked into neatly pressed khakis. An old poet and a young warrior, talking over green teas.