Come and Get Me

by August Norman

  “Got an old hookup in Miami?”

  “I do. When she found out I was in the Bahamas, she started sending me naked pictures, said get my ass to Florida.”

  “Bullshit.”

  Mike pulled his phone from his pocket, swiped, handed the mobile porn machine to Fodor. The photos in the text thread came from the internet, but they looked low budget enough to fit the story.

  Fodor handed the phone back. “You don’t care about your return flight or hotel reservations here anymore?”

  “Would you?” Mike stared at the phone. “Only shitty thing, I can’t get another flight for under nine hundred bucks, and that’s not till Thursday. The TSA’s weird about last-minute one-way shit.”

  Fodor nodded. “This is gonna sound crazy, but I might be able to beat that. I’ve got other boats, right? Well, I’m supposed to do a repos to Fort Lauderdale on Wednesday.”

  Mike fought back a smile. “A repos?”

  “A reposition. I’m gonna run a fishing charter over to Florida. We’ve got four cabins onboard. I can’t give you one for free, ’cause, you know, this is a business, but I can get you to Florida on Wednesday night. No TSA. Shit, no customs at all.”

  “You leave the boat there?”

  “Yeah, it needs a little work, and my parents live in Lauderdale. I’ll put it in dry dock for two weeks, then charter another fishing trip for the way back.”

  Mike noticed his heartbeat in his fingertips. The pounding beat worked through his entire body. Dancing didn’t sound so bad anymore. In fact, dancing would be required. “You didn’t just get me high to make me buy a boat trip, did you?”

  “Hell no,” Fodor said, “I got you high to get you laid. Either tonight or three days from now.”

  CHAPTER

  38

  LAKSHMI SMILED AT the red gift bag on her chest. “Caitlin, you didn’t have to.”

  “Normally, I’d have gone full Tiffany’s box, but I figured—”

  “Gift bags are easy to open.” Lakshmi held up her broken wrist. Three signatures on the cast so far—Caitlin, Mary, and Aaron. “It’s not your fault I fell, Caitlin. You told me to get down. I can still text and type, and I’ve got some killer drugs.”

  She picked up one of the three prescription bottles on her bedside table, sounded out the word. “Nor-co. These are my favorite. Now, my present.”

  Caitlin leaned forward. “You have to promise me something.”

  “Like what?”

  “I’ve already talked to your teachers. We’ve gotten you extensions on several projects, as well as the right to stream your main lectures.”

  “Caitlin—”

  “I’ve reached out to Doris. She’ll arrange any transportation you need.”

  “I can still drive.”

  Caitlin got to the point. “I want you to know that we’re here for you, that you’ll be taken care of.”

  “What’s the promise?”

  She met Lakshmi’s eyes. “You have to finish.”

  “Finish what?”

  “Promise me you’ll finish your degree.”

  Lakshmi looked confused. “Why wouldn’t I?”

  Caitlin felt tears in the corners of her eyes, looked away. “Because you got hurt doing my job, less than a month away from graduation.”

  “Oh, right.” Lakshmi raised her good hand. “I promise nothing will stop me from finishing my degree.”

  Caitlin reached for a tissue, blew her nose. “Good.”

  Lakshmi looked like she might cry too. “I thought you were a badass.”

  Caitlin shook away the sadness. “Open your gift already.”

  Lakshmi tipped the bag over. A slip of paper fell into her palm. “Is this a password?”

  Caitlin smiled. “Since your injury will keep you out of the field, that code will let you use my professional credentials on the online financial database.”

  Lakshmi lit up. “You’re trusting me with your password?”

  “You’ve earned it.”

  Lakshmi clutched the slip of paper against her chest. “Only one thing would make this better. Can we order pizza?”

  Caitlin laughed. “Way ahead of you.”

  * * *

  Caitlin heard the noise, went to the main room.

  Mary stood in the open doorway next to an uncomfortable-looking pizza guy. “Caitlin, tell this young man I’m not trying to steal your pizza.”

  “She probably was, but she’s with us.” Caitlin held up a wad of cash. “Remarkable timing, Lubbers.”

  Mary waved the money away. “I don’t mind shelling out for Pizza Monster.”

  She paid the young man, grabbed the pie, and shut the door behind her. The sweet, oily scent of cheesy goodness filled the room once more.

  Lakshmi called from her bedroom. “Is there a monster in my apartment?”

  Mary laughed. “That’s right, kid. Can you walk?”

  Lakshmi emerged from the bedroom and stumbled her way to the coffee table. “Where there’s pizza, there’s a way.” She opened the box and bit into a piece, then looked up at Caitlin and Mary with cheese hanging from her mouth. “Pizza Monster doesn’t care that his daughter is a lesbian. That’s why he cuts the slices into delicious triangles of bliss.”

  Mary nudged Caitlin. “Think she’ll sell us some pills?”

  “Think we’d better move if we want pizza.”

  They made fast work of the food. Caitlin filled in time-line gaps for Lakshmi—her and Mary’s trip back for the abandoned rental car, the surveillance of two Sunday Bro-duce deliveries, the lack of meaningful activity on the farm Monday morning, the fact that it was now Monday night.

  The food sobered Lakshmi somewhat. “What about Dave?”

  Mary shook her head. “No clue. We’ve seen Frodo and Gooch make deliveries, and an underclassman drop off money after a party, but no sign of Amireau yet.”

  Caitlin studied the open spreadsheet on her laptop. “According to our list of sponsored events, they’ve got nothing for two days.”

  “Which is good,” Mary said. “I have meetings, and Aaron has to teach tomorrow and the day after, so we can’t be around for another stakeout. Plus, there’s the helmet thing.”

  “The what-met thing?” Lakshmi said.

  “My dumb lover will never be a spy. Gooch flagged him down to ask where he got the helmet, said he’d seen him twice that day.”

  Caitlin laughed. “Looks like I’m on my own tomorrow.”

  “I can help,” Lakshmi said. “Maybe not drive—”

  “Or stand.” Caitlin shook her head no. “To go to Greenwood, we still have to document David Amireau at the farm. Broken wrist or not, your restraining order means I’m going by myself tomorrow. I won’t do anything stupid.”

  Mary uncapped two beers. “Famous last words uttered by anyone who ever fell off a cliff.”

  CHAPTER

  39

  HE CHECKED THE sidewalk then backed into the gap in the hedge. Sure that no one had seen, he slid up against the wall, inched toward the window, heard all three voices. He pulled his hat down further, his jacket collar up, and glanced through the one-inch gap in the curtains.

  Caitlin Bergman, the redheaded professor from the graduation ceremony, and the Anjale girl—a vocal part of the investigation from the beginning—all ate pizza beneath a wall of Angela Chapman information.

  He stepped back and considered his position. Less than two weeks in town and Caitlin nearly had all the pieces.

  His presence outside the apartment wasn’t just playing with fire, it was walking a tightrope over an active volcano. He had Paige. Paige would have to be enough. A bird in the hand always beat hiding in the bushes.

  He checked the sidewalk again, stepped out, and ran to his car.

  CHAPTER

  40

  CAITLIN PARKED THE hybrid by the fence across from the Bro-duce farm just before eleven AM and saw only Fodor’s blue SUV in the driveway. She fixed a flexible tripod to the camera, then mounted the rig on her ope
n window sill. With a video app on her laptop showing the live feed, she’d be able to get some work done without looking up every five seconds.

  She searched her documents for the collegiate sexual abuse study and found a passage Lakshmi hadn’t quoted.

  Women and men, undergraduate and graduate students alike, reported experiencing sexual harassment or assault before arriving at IU at rates similar to, or higher than, those they experienced while at IU. These results speak to a need to better address this issue in our high schools and communities.

  While presumably accurate, the section didn’t address the obvious differences between high school and college. The maturity gap between ages fifteen and twenty-one, the availability of alcohol and controlled substances, the freedom of diving into a freshman class of ten thousand.

  The big question: Were men worse now than twenty years ago? A house full of guys Caitlin knew in college shared two VHS tapes and a stack of Hustler magazines. Today’s youth dialed up pornography on their phones, where every woman not only enjoyed anal but begged for it.

  On the opposite side: Had social media and education empowered victims to find one another, heal together, recover faster?

  She opened her writing app and started her piece:

  * * *

  In the spring of 97, my editor at Indiana University’s student-published newspaper assigned me the Breaking Away story, an annual fluff piece celebrating the time Hollywood immortalized the sleepy college town in a film of the same name. I remember saying, “This is the worst thing you could possibly do to me.”

  Two days later, I’d be beaten and raped by Troy Woods.

  My best friend had introduced me to the local hero over a drinking game. Everyone seemed surprised I didn’t recognize the first-string quarterback with the Disney-prince cleft chin—let alone spend my night flirting with him.

  He only piqued my interest when he offered to help with my assignment. A real local, he’d grown up three miles south and could show me spots the usual stories ignored.

  That he was four when Twentieth Century Fox made the movie about the yearly bike race, the Little 500, didn’t stop my interest. I wanted to tell a story that went beyond the sorority house where the local boy serenaded his girlfriend or the stretch of road where the kid raced the semi.

  When Troy proposed a day trip that Saturday, I agreed, even shook his hand when he spoke the seemingly innocent phrase “It’s a date.”

  One thing all victims of sexual assault have in common is a kind of guilt-ridden hindsight, full of self-doubt and self-blame. Twenty years later, the voice inside me repeats the same questions.

  Did I lead him on in some way?

  Was that handshake the unspoken consent to rip my clothes off?

  Troy drove, even took an unnecessary detour past Bloomington South High. No coincidence, a billboard at the end of the football stadium listed Troy Woods—BHS’s own Hoosier—among their greats.

  High school had been one thing, but IU remained far from the best program in the Big Ten. Troy wouldn’t go on to the NFL. He mentioned something about an arena league scout, something else about a coaching opportunity. Two miles from the quarries, I realized his tour had less to do with the town than the townie himself.

  Troy knew his way around the massive abandoned stonecutting facility on Tapp Road featured in the film. He and his friends had brought girls to the site in high school—so many he’d lost count.

  “This is the place Paul Dooley goes—”

  “I’ve seen the movie, Troy.”

  “—’cause he doesn’t understand his son.”

  He jumped onto a concrete platform, stepped over a rusted iron beam. Chalk mushroomed where his size 15 shoe landed. Stooping over a pile of small pieces of white rock, he placed a chunk in front of him, pulled a plastic bottle out of his pocket, and took a sip of lemon-lime soda.

  “Watch this.”

  He poured Sprite on the stone, then described the chemical reaction like a fifth grader with a science fair project. The calcium carbonate, aka the limestone, reacted to the carbolic acid in the soda, causing the stone to break down.

  He smiled at me the same way previous boys had after pointing out constellations or doing pull-ups. This was his finishing move.

  I was no angel. I’d had my share of lovers—maybe more than average—and I’d acquiesced to displays of testosterone less overt or impressive. But not that day. That day I wanted to go home, and I told him so.

  He said no.

  Unlike my other lingering doubts, I don’t question my actions at that moment. I didn’t freeze or hesitate.

  I started running.

  Troy Woods would never play for the NFL, but he caught me in seconds.

  * * *

  Caitlin’s eyes went to the camera feed. The elusive David Amireau stood outside the house next to Frodo. She hit “Record.” They went inside the first greenhouse.

  Still only one car. Was Dave living there?

  She reread her opening. Gratuitous, more therapy than journalism. Either way, she’d started the process. No panic attack, no tears.

  Again, she caught movement in the feed. Both men carried boxes from the greenhouse to the barn.

  She’d taken the tour. The boxes contained nothing more than crisp Persian cucumbers. Still, she’d documented Amireau at the farm. She started the shutdown process to be ready to follow whoever left. She wasn’t ready in time.

  David Amireau whipped out of the barn and down the driveway on a bicycle.

  Caitlin pulled the camera and tripod off the window.

  He reached the road, waited for an oncoming truck to pass.

  “Not good,” she said.

  Instead of turning, he rode straight across the road toward her hiding spot.

  She crammed the camera behind the passenger seat, threw a sweatshirt over the pile of surveillance gear.

  Amireau’s thick beard and beady eyes greeted her through the passenger window. He smiled, knocked on the glass. “You okay?”

  Caitlin had no idea if he’d seen the camera. She reached for her phone. “What did you say?”

  “Are you having car trouble or something?”

  Not exactly the “What the hell are you doing spying on me?” that she’d expected.

  “No.” She held up her phone, screen locked. “Directions. My phone keeps losing signal, and I’m looking for something.”

  “What?”

  “The soccer fields. My niece has a game somewhere around here.”

  “On a Tuesday?”

  Caitlin tried to lemonade the lemon. “She’s twenty-five. She and her friends took the day off for a health thing. Do you live around here?”

  “You’re in my driveway.”

  “Oh, sorry,” Caitlin said, lost in the thought that Aaron Gaffney had spent an entire day in the very spot.

  Amireau looked past her. “Why’d you park like that? All up against the fence.”

  She tried to force a blush. “I peed in your grass. I wanted to set up a barrier in case anyone drove up all of a sudden. You know, like you just did.”

  Amireau laughed a little. “That would have been weird.”

  He pointed down the road. “The soccer fields are a mile to your left. They even have bathrooms. Might be a little nicer than my grass.”

  Caitlin placed the car in gear. “So sorry.”

  “No worries, I feel like a dork for sneaking up on you.”

  She wondered if the smile she summoned looked as unnatural as his. “Thanks for the directions and the rest stop.”

  “Anytime. Stay safe.” He wheeled himself away from the car.

  Caitlin pulled out and drove toward the soccer fields. After fifteen minutes of muttering to herself and staring at grass, she retreated to Mary’s guesthouse.

  CHAPTER

  41

  ALMOST NOON, CAITLIN grabbed her tennis shoes and ran from her mistake. Her app chimed at the one-mile marker. She did twenty push-ups, started mile two. A block south
of the main strip, smells from nearby restaurants called to her. She dug deeper, hit the town square, did another twenty push-ups. She popped back up, headed south. Traffic was light, the sky was blue, and no one but David Amireau and her knew how close she’d come to blowing everything. Her mile three chime came earlier than expected. Apparently, rage took a minute off her usual time. More push-ups, then a turn down a residential street. She’d only planned to run three miles but didn’t stop until number five.

  Forty-nine minutes. Not her best, but a solid effort.

  Fifty feet from the guesthouse, she saw Jerry Greenwood leave the front porch and walk to a sedan.

  She jogged closer. “What’d I do now?”

  He smiled. “Thought I missed you.”

  “What’s up?” She met him by the car, checked the passenger seat, no Maverick.

  “Needed to blow off a little steam,” he said. “Looks like you just did.”

  Caitlin wiped sweat from her nose. “I’ve got more steam, Detective. Want to come in for a cup of absolutely nothing?”

  “More than anything.”

  She led him to the house. Another folded piece of paper hung from the screen door.

  “You can ignore the note,” he said. “I’m not as good with words as you are.”

  “Are you kidding? Most men would have texted.”

  She grabbed the message. Want to get together and talk about the city’s nicest park?

  No fancy words this time. Maybe Greenwood hadn’t written the other note. Could have been Scott Canton. The word embower’d screamed poetry.

  She opened the door, kicked off her shoes. “How’d you know where I was staying, Cyrano?”

  He followed her in. “I’m a detective.”

  “No one named Mary told you how to find me?”

  He winked. “Called the rent-a-car place, said I found your phone and wanted to return it. They gave me the address you gave them.”

  “My tire store move?”

  He moved closer. “Basically.”

  She stepped back. “I’m gonna rinse off. You can tell me your problems through the shower door.”

  He laid his sport coat over the back of the couch, loosened his tie. “I’ll try anything once.”