Come and Get Me

by August Norman

  She shook her head, stretched, then walked over to the back patio, plopped down on a deck chair, and filled her lungs with country air. Since the nearest residence was an old farmhouse at the other end of the cornfield, maybe three quarters of a mile away, there’d be no distractions until Branford’s return. Caitlin closed her eyes and went into her tunnel.

  If Lakshmi hadn’t drugged Chapman, Caitlin had nothing new to bring to the story. With access to the farm, the cops would find Chapman’s body, which meant Caitlin would have to read it in the paper like every other jerk. What to do?

  She looked up at the waist-high, bright-green rows of corn, watched the tassels wave in the light breeze.

  There was the other story. The real story. She’d driven past the spot. She could drive back, walk the area—or she could go back to the house, pack her stuff, and leave town.

  For the second time in the nineteen days she’d been in Indiana, her dad’s singsong voice came back to her.

  “Could don’t mean should, but would won’t mean did—unless you let it. Otherwise, you’ll never forget it.”

  She took another look at the cornfield and nodded.

  It’s just a building. Troy Woods won’t even be there.

  She’d drive over to the old limestone mill, see what there was to see, then let her emotions tell her whether to go back to Mary’s place or drive aimlessly across the country.

  “There you are.”

  Branford’s return brought her out of her head. He walked over with a plastic shopping bag in hand. “I thought you ran away.”

  Caitlin stood. “Just clearing my head.”

  “Good, I come bearing gifts.” He pulled three business-card-sized coupons out of the bag, each marked “Free Pizza by Owner.”

  “May you never go hungry,” he said.

  She pocketed the cards. “Or thin. I thank you from the bottom of my stomach.”

  “The second item isn’t really a gift,” he said, reaching back into his bag. The familiar cover of Fallen Angels appeared. “Told you I was a fan.”

  Caitlin reached for the hardcover book. “Have a pen? For once I don’t mind signing a copy.”

  He leaned in next to her. “No, that’s the surprise, Caitlin. Open the cover.”

  She opened the book, saw her own signature in blood red—the same color pen she’d used at every signing. “I don’t remember seeing you at the bookstore.”

  “What can I say? Nobody in casting remembered seeing me in Hollywood either. Maybe it’s why I teach.” He took the book back, brought out two more items, a glass pipe and a metal tin. “Now, I know you have to run, but you mentioned a penchant for the forbidden plant. I was gonna smoke a bowl before I went to the Monster. Care to join me?”

  He unscrewed the tin’s lid, and the smell of dank pot wafted her way. “Sounds like a good way to burn a pizza.”

  “Oh no,” he said, pinching a bud from the tin. “It’s a gentle sativa, mellow, but not mind-numbing. I’ve performed Hamlet on this strain.”

  Again, she thought about her upcoming visit to the old mill. For the first time since she’d been in Bloomington, she wasn’t worried about walking the spot sober. “No thanks, I’d better get going.”

  She dug for the rental car’s key fob in her pocket, started walking.

  “Are you sure,” he asked, trailing behind her. “It’s really good stuff.”

  “I’ve got a lot of work to do.” Still fifty feet away, she hit the fob, unlocked the car with a beep. “That’s my ride.”

  He sped up and stepped in front of her, planting his body between her and the car. “I’m super-bummed. What are the odds I’ll ever get a chance to chat with an award-winning author at my own house?”

  His mouth offered a perfect toothpaste-commercial smile, but his eyes gave off something else, something dark and intense. For the briefest of seconds, Caitlin was reminded of Troy Woods. Although way under Woods’s towering six and a half feet, Branford still had a few inches on her. Caitlin moved her tongue against her cheek, her mouth suddenly dry.

  “Gotta go, Chad,” she said, not challenging, but firm.

  His eyes opened wide, and the dark intensity she’d seen disappeared. “Of course. Sorry if that sounded creepy.” He moved aside. “It was really great sharing a moment with you, Caitlin.”

  “You too,” she said, continuing her walk to the car.

  Woods is on your mind. Of course he is, but Branford’s just a teacher.

  Her tension dissipated with each step.

  Lakshmi’s favorite teacher, she reminded herself, and a fan of your writing. Who could blame him for wanting to get to know you?

  Now only ten feet from the car, Caitlin smiled, remembering Lakshmi sitting at the signing. The girl had waited politely for her turn to talk about a body buried in a field; a safe, noninvasive distance away, maybe twenty feet at the most. About the distance Branford was behind her now, standing back near the patio chair.

  Caitlin’s smile disappeared.

  But if Branford had a copy signed, how the hell did Lakshmi not see her favorite teacher at the table?

  “Hey, Caitlin.” His friendly voice called out from behind her. “I think you forgot your phone.”

  She turned, saw him jogging toward her with a mobile device in his hand.

  Lakshmi’s favorite acting teacher, the one who did makeup on horror films in Hollywood.

  She turned back to the car, saw her phone sitting in the center console.

  Her heart dropped into her stomach. Branford had been at the signing.

  The guy with the goatee darker than his hair and the kind of horrible scars people looked away from.

  “Must have slipped out of your pocket when you sat in the chair,” he said, only seconds away now.

  She could be misreading coincidences, wrong, or just plain crazy, but every hair on her arms stood on end. No time to get to the driver’s side of the car or to crawl in through the passenger’s door, not even keys to scratch with—only the fob in her hand. Fuck it, if she was wrong, she’d apologize.

  Caitlin planted her left leg and kicked straight back waist-high with her right foot.

  Her kick made contact, full-force.

  She spun around, saw Branford stumbling backward holding his ribs, eight feet away, the phone still in his hand.

  Ready with an apology, she waited for some sign of outrage, or even surprise, but Branford shook his head and stood up straight, no more smile.

  “What gave me away?” he said, the charm in his voice replaced with cold calculation, the welcoming light in his eyes now dark.

  Caitlin shifted to her right.

  He matched her position, fast, like Peter Pan’s shadow.

  She shifted back left, he did the same, then smiled and pressed the button on the side of the phone. Sparks arced between two contacts at the tip of the anti-rape stun device.

  “This doesn’t have to hurt,” Branford shouted over the frantic snapping.

  “Yes,” Caitlin said, “it sure fucking does.”

  He lunged forward, stun gun out.

  Caitlin ducked left, threw a roundhouse kick toward his side, made contact again, but weakly, a push instead of a snap. He swung the phone toward her leg. She pulled away, avoiding the shock, but tumbled backward and landed close to the front of the parked car. She got up fast, put another five feet between them, her hands in fists.

  “Shit,” she said, her eyes stuck on the key fob sitting in the dirt where she fell.

  He followed her gaze, quick-stepped closer to the fob, and reactivated the stun gun.

  No way she could get to her key or her phone. With that thing ready to shock the daylights out of her, no way she could beat Branford in a fight. She caught her breath. The only good thing about all that time she’d spent running from her past was that now she could run very, very fast.

  She turned and sprinted into the cornfield.

  The waist-high corn whipped across her jeans as her canvas deck shoes sped through
the mud, but she pushed hard, full-speed. She glanced back, saw Branford following behind her, but slower. She’d beat him to the farmhouse, find help, a witness or even a phone. Anything to buy time and distance. On a lazy day, she ran a ten-minute mile. A good day, an even eight. Caitlin guessed she cleared the distance between Branford’s driveway and the farmhouse in six. Lungs burning, she ran into the grass surrounding the farm and checked behind her.

  No sign of Branford. Maybe he’d crouched in the corn, maybe he’d gone back. If he knew what was good for him, he’d run back home, get his car, and get the hell out of town before Caitlin got back with the cops. She inspected the farm, saw a partially collapsed garage with nothing inside and the two-story house with a long front porch. No cars in the driveway.

  “Help,” she screamed, running toward the front door.

  She climbed onto the porch, flung open a screen door, and pounded on the solid inner door. “Help me, please, anyone.”

  She looked back, still no sign of Branford.

  She knocked again, then grabbed the door handle. No give. Stepping away, she looked into a window, but saw nothing but curtains. She smacked her hand on the glass and shuffled down the width of the porch. “Please, anyone.”

  In the far corner near the porch ceiling, a modern security camera aimed toward the door. She took a step back, looked directly into the lens, and screamed. “If you can see me, please send help. The man’s name is Chad Branford.”

  She turned back to the corn.

  Damn it.

  Maybe he’d been hiding earlier, maybe she’d been blinded by adrenaline. Branford was three-quarters of the way through the corn and getting closer.

  Caitlin jumped off the porch and ran around the house. A small set of cinder block steps led up to a screened-in patio. She reached for the screen door. Held in place by a hook and eye latch, the flimsy barrier shimmied in place. Caitlin put a foot against the porch frame and pulled again, full strength. The tiny lock gave way.

  She scrambled into a well-kept garden of spices and vegetables, jumped over a lawn chair toward a door, and tried the knob.

  Unlocked, thank God.

  She opened the door into a kitchen, turned and slammed it shut behind her. Not only did it have a simple knob-lock, it had two deadbolts. She turned all three, then backed away until she bumped into a counter.

  Find a phone.

  She spun, inspecting the room. The cabinets and appliances looked well used but unchanged since the seventies. She scanned for a wall phone.

  Nothing. No old AT&T standard. No cordless charger.

  How about a knife?

  She checked the counters, saw a microwave, a toaster oven, and a stack of newspapers, but no knife block.

  “Are you kidding me?” she yelled, stepping toward an opening that led to a large staircase.

  The loud creak of movement on hardwood floor froze her in place. She dropped into a squat, held her breath, and waited for another sign of life.

  Seconds later, a weak voice called from somewhere past the stairs. “Is there someone here?”

  Definitely in the house. Hard to say whether it belonged to a male or female.

  “I saw you on the camera,” the voice continued. “I’ve called the police.”

  Relief washed over Caitlin. “There’s a man chasing me,” she said, following the sound toward the right, now definitively feminine, maybe a senior citizen. She moved toward the stairs, saw a room on her left full of older furniture with vinyl dust covers. “Where are you?”

  “I’m on the phone with the police, just inside the parlor.”

  Caitlin turned another corner, saw the house’s front entry lobby and a wainscoted opening leading to a side sitting room. Caitlin entered the parlor, saw an open laptop on a TV dinner table with a live security feed of the outside porch, but didn’t see a little old lady.

  She definitely didn’t see whatever struck her in the temple, only the blossom of hot pain that drove sight from her right eye.

  She collapsed onto the hardwood floor, her hand clutching at the point of impact.

  Chad Branford walked out from an unseen corner. “He’s not outside, dear,” he said, his voice mimicking a little old lady, his hand once again clutching the stun gun. “He’s right here.”

  Caitlin tried to stand, but a sharp kick to the jaw knocked her over again, the pain spreading everywhere. She reached out with her hands, tried to crawl.

  The violent snap of the stun gun returned. “I guess you were right,” he shouted over the sound of superheated air exploding. “This does have to hurt.”

  CHAPTER

  60

  MOLD, MOIST EARTH, mildew, urine. The smells sank into the back of Caitlin’s mouth.

  She opened her eyes, saw only a sliver of light. She tried to turn her head, but a strap held her down against a mattress. Same with her hands and feet.

  How long has it been? Hours?

  Her jaw was on fire, and her shoulder ached, probably from Branford’s stun gun, but the pain battled something narcotic that kept her thoughts dull.

  Hours then.

  She couldn’t see her clothing but felt the difference between what she’d been wearing and the pajama-like fabric now covering both her top and bottom—wet below her crotch. Unconscious, she’d pissed the bed, probably some dirty mattress in Branford’s second house, the farmhouse she’d run to for help.

  Idiot. He told you he owned twenty-two acres of land, which means no one saw you running, no one heard you scream—and you didn’t tell a single person where you were going.

  She let out a whimper. A restraint below her breasts kept her breath shallow.

  This is the man who killed Angela Chapman, probably Paige Lauffer too. Not Amireau or Michelson, definitely not Lakshmi Anjale. A fucking acting teacher.

  Her chest shook and she gasped, letting out a longer but somehow weaker noise, and a single thought echoed in her head.

  This is how I die.

  Something else made its presence known. A sound—rhythmic, excited, familiar. A mix of heavy breath and the slight slapping of skin.

  A high whine escaped the back of Caitlin’s throat. She took another gasp, let her first scream out. She knew the sound of a man masturbating. The steady pace turned feverish.

  His soft voice came through, almost serpentine. “You’re safe now.”

  She screamed again, but still heard his breathy whispers. “You’re mine, Caitlin.”

  She lost herself, screamed until she saw nothing, felt nothing. His own scream joined hers, an unbridled chorus. Her voice gave out; her tears did not.

  He gave his own whimper. His voice sounded softer, further, perhaps turned away. “Oh, Caitlin, I’m so glad you’re here.”

  She heard movement, then a zipper.

  “So glad.”

  The air pressure in the room changed. She heard a whoosh, then a footstep onto crushed stone.

  “I’ll be back tonight,” he said, even further away.

  A soft thud was followed by the metallic slide of a deadbolt being turned, then another.

  Then silence.

  CHAPTER

  61

  Los Angeles

  MIKE HAD CHECKED his phone first thing each morning. Still nothing from Caitlin.

  On Monday, he’d had a follow-up call with Agent Martinez, who’d handed Michelson off to be transported to the Midwest, but Martinez hadn’t heard from Caitlin either. That afternoon, Mike emailed her an invoice for his Bahamas expenditures, the last line a stand-alone item labeled “Manure Transportation (Kieran Michelson).” Her lack of reply didn’t faze him, but he spent the rest of the day skimming news coverage of the Bloomington drug busts. Nothing mentioned Caitlin’s involvement.

  A weekend without a debrief wasn’t unusual.

  Not hearing back by Monday after a big story’s release wasn’t exactly unheard of either but did strike Mike as out of the ordinary. Caitlin often followed up for additional details she could use in supplemental pieces.
That or she’d meet him somewhere to brag over cocktails.

  By Tuesday night, almost seventy-two hours after he’d turned in Michelson, Mike got worried. Scrolling back through the Bro-duce stories, he found a trend, dialed the Indiana Daily Student, and left a message.

  A young woman with a slight British accent returned his call Wednesday morning.

  “Is this Mike Roman? My name is Lakshmi Anjale.”

  The Anjale girl hadn’t spoken with Caitlin since Monday night. She didn’t go into detail, but Mike could tell they’d ended on less than friendly terms. Also, she’d gotten a text from Caitlin on Tuesday at 5:47 PM.

  Fuck this town.

  Cryptic, but more reply than he’d gotten. Lakshmi gave him another number and name—Mary Lubbers-Gaffney.

  When Weird-Last-Name Mary returned his call, she told him Caitlin had cleaned her stuff out of the guesthouse on Tuesday and disappeared without so much as a thank-you note. She also filled in the details regarding Caitlin’s dalliances with Jerry Greenwood and the BPD confrontation.

  A quick conversation with Detective Greenwood revealed he also hadn’t heard from Caitlin since Monday, but he did mention pointing her toward Lakshmi.

  A full loop. The only off-ramp a text that read Fuck this town. Mike tried to go about the rest of his week, but sleep couldn’t beat his instincts.

  Thursday morning, he searched for flights to Indianapolis.

  Friday, he landed and rented a car.

  That afternoon, he placed a copy of Caitlin’s book in front of the Bloomington Police Department’s desk sergeant and pointed to the photo on the jacket.

  “My friend is missing.”

  CHAPTER

  62

  CAITLIN’S EYES FOUGHT to focus on the mess of pink and white halfway up the nearest wall. Her brain filled in the gaps between the low light and whatever drugs Branford had forced into her system.

  Barbie.

  Wait, not Barbie, but cursive pink and white letters in Barbie’s trademarked style, abused for vanity art: Paige.

  Caitlin had found the missing wall art from Paige Lauffer’s doll room.

  She was still restrained, but not in a bed. Straps kept her upright on a metal chair, arms at her sides, knees and feet together, no wiggle room. Her body reported aches and pains, but no violation below the waist. The clothes felt the same as last time, some sort of pink cotton pajamas. Her bare feet touched cold stone, smooth but unpolished.