Still Missing

by Chevy Stevens

  Gary said, “The doctors took it off when you were admitted. You’ll get it back when you’re released—it’s with your personal effects.”

  “The necklace wasn’t mine. He gave it to me—he said he’d bought it for another girl.”

  “What other girl? Why didn’t you say anything about this before?”

  Hurt by his abrupt tone, I said, “I got used to wearing it, so I forgot—maybe if you guys backed off on the questions once in a while I’d have had a chance to tell you. Besides, in case you haven’t noticed, I’ve been a little distracted.” I shook my arm with the IV in it at him.

  In a calmer voice he said, “Sorry, you’re right, Annie. We’ve been hitting you with some hard questions, but it’s really important you tell us everything.”

  Over the next couple of days I tried to fill him in on what I knew of The Freak’s history—including his mother, his father, and the female helicopter pilot. Gary often stopped me with questions and sometimes his body was stiff with tension as he leaned toward me, but he was careful to keep a calm tone of voice and he let me get the story out at my own speed. If we talked about the rapes, or The Freak’s schedule and system of punishments, his hand would tighten on the pen as he took notes, but he was good about keeping a neutral expression. Half the time I couldn’t look at him. I’d stare at the wall, counting cracks, and recite my abuses like I was listing the ingredients to a recipe from hell.

  Mom insisted on staying by my side when he talked to me and she usually sent my stepdad to get a coffee—I’ve never seen a guy look so relieved. If I hesitated for even one second when Gary asked me something, Mom jumped in saying I looked tired or pale and suggested we call one of the doctors, but I thought she was the one who looked pale, especially when I talked about the rapes. And she developed this habit of tucking the blanket tight around me. The harder the words, the tighter she tucked, like she was trying to contain them within me. I didn’t appreciate the attention, but I knew she had to be feeling pretty helpless, listening to what I went through, and hell, if it made her feel better…Besides, I didn’t have enough strength to fight her.

  On my third day in the hospital, Gary told me that the cabin being so customized had helped convince them I was telling the truth, and he was pretty sure the Crown wasn’t going to be putting forth any charges. Diane had stopped coming along by then, and Gary said she’d gone back to Clayton Falls to handle “other aspects of the investigation.”

  I tried to be patient when Gary asked me to describe the same things over and over again, because I knew they were having a hard time identifying The Freak. It didn’t help that he didn’t have any fingerprints. They extracted some DNA but Gary said that’s only useful if they have something to compare it to, and there weren’t any hits in their system. The Freak’s face wasn’t looking so good after he’d been left in a hot metal shed, so they took a photo and touched it up on the computer, but they weren’t getting any workable leads. When I asked about dental records Gary said they weren’t conclusive. Even the van wasn’t helping them. It had been stolen, along with the plates from another van, from the parking lot of a local mall that didn’t have a security camera.

  “Do you think we’ll ever find out who he was?” I said one day. “Or who the other girls he hurt were?”

  “Anything you remember can help us.”

  I sat up so I could look him straight in the face. “Don’t give me a line from a police training manual—I want to know what you think. What you really think.”

  “Honestly, I don’t know, Annie, but I’m going to do everything in my power to get you an answer. You deserve that.” There was an intent fervor in his eyes I hadn’t seen before. “It would be a lot easier if your mom wasn’t here when we’re talking. You okay with that?”

  “Yeah, it is pretty hard to talk about this in front of her.”

  When Mom came back in, reeking of cigarettes, Gary said, “I think it would be best if I did the interviews alone, Lorraine.”

  She held my hand and said, “Annie should have family with her.”

  “It upsets you too much, Mom.” I gave her hand a squeeze. “I’ll be okay.”

  She looked back and forth between Gary and me.

  “If that’s what you want, Annie Bear, but Wayne and I will be sitting right outside if you need us.”

  In between my getting interviewed by Gary and prodded by doctors, the next couple of days were a blur. It was bad enough I wasn’t allowed to leave because I was dehydrated, among other things. After my meltdown at the police station and my reaction at the hospital, the doctors were concerned that I might be a danger to myself and wanted to keep me for observation. But then after a few raging nightmares and another panic attack, triggered by an interview with Gary, they started playing with my doses—up and down I went, and it was getting increasingly hard to separate my dreams from life. I’d hear a baby cry and think they’d found mine or I’d wake up with a doctor leaning over me, and in a panic, thinking it was The Freak, I’d push him away. I lived in terror all over again as my last bit of control slipped away to pharmaceuticals.

  It was during that endless confusion of questions, an over-attentive mother, and drug-happy doctors that Luke and I had our awkward reunion. Christina was spared the same treatment since she was on a Mediterranean cruise at the time. Aunt Val also made the trip, delivering an enormous bouquet of flowers, but Mom allowed her only fifteen minutes of small talk before she told her I needed rest. I actually found Aunt Val more sensitive than usual, even asking if there was anything she could get me, “anything at all.” She must have said something that pissed Mom off, because I didn’t see her again until I got home.

  I’d been there for about eight days when Mom and Wayne headed back to Clayton Falls—the hotel was too expensive for them. Once they were gone I realized I’d been letting Mom, the cops, and the doctors decide what was best for me. It was time I made a few of my own decisions.

  The next morning, I stopped the nurse about to give me more drugs. The doctor who was called in said either I took them or I consented to see a shrink. I’d been refusing to see one up to that point, but by then I’d have agreed to anything just to get the hell out.

  They were such a small hospital they didn’t have a psych ward or a resident psychiatrist, so they brought in some kid who must have been straight from shrink school. Even though his questions were ridiculous, I made myself sound sane while still managing to shed enough tears so he wouldn’t think I was handling things too well. I’d rather have walked over hot coals than tell that guy how I really felt.

  The doctors wouldn’t let me have any newspapers, and boredom was making me bitchy. Gary started to bring me fashion magazines, probably in self-defense, when he came to talk to me.

  “Want me to cut out some photos of designer suits for you?” I said the first time he handed me one.

  He grinned and tossed a couple of chocolate bars on the bed. “Here, maybe these will keep that smart mouth of yours busy.”

  He also started to bring me coffee laced with hot chocolate, and one time he brought some crossword puzzle books. I didn’t mind the questions so much when he came bearing gifts. In fact, he was becoming the highlight of my day. It didn’t hurt that his voice was so low and smooth. Sometimes I just closed my eyes, focusing in on his voice. He had to repeat a few of his questions more than once, but he never sounded annoyed—amused, but never annoyed.

  When I asked him to explain about his job and rank, he told me he had a sergeant, two corporals, and a few constables working under him. So he was the top dog—not of the whole office, but of the Serious Crime Unit, and that was reassuring. He always clammed up when I asked him specific questions about the investigation, though, and said he’d tell me when they had “concrete information.”

  Once he came in during the tail end of one of my shrink sessions and turned to leave, but I asked him to stay. The shrink said, “Do you think you might have some anger towards the man who abducted you?” Gary rais
ed an eyebrow at me behind his back, and I had to struggle not to laugh.

  After about two weeks of doctors, hospital Jell-O, and pacing my room, the shrink gave me a final assessment and said he didn’t see any reason why I couldn’t go home, but the doctors had to review the assessment before I could be released. I didn’t have any more freedom than I’d had on the mountain.

  Apparently the shrink said my actions were “consistent” with the trauma I’d endured, and the Crown had officially decided not to put forth any charges. Guess the pipsqueak was good for something, after all. But still no word from the doctors about when I’d be released.

  Gary told me the RCMP was paying close attention to my case because they needed to learn everything they could about The Freak, not only to help solve cold cases but for future investigations as well. Sometimes we took a break from talking about the mountain and instead he caught me up on world events, or we just sat and did crossword puzzles together. It had been days since the shrink’s assessment.

  “You have to get me out of here,” I said when Gary waltzed in with two coffees one morning. “The shrink said I was fine to go home, the doctors are just dicking around, and I’m going crazy. I’m being treated like a goddamn prisoner. I’m supposed to be the victim here—this is bullshit.”

  He set the coffees down on the bedside table and with a decisive nod strolled back out the door. Within a half hour he was standing at the foot of my bed.

  “You just have to hang on for one more night. You’ll be out in the morning.”

  Pulling myself up into a sitting position, I said, “You didn’t shoot someone, did you?”

  “Nothing that drastic, I just lit a little fire under them.”

  Something told me there was more to it than that, but before I could press for details he picked up the crossword book from the bedside table, lowered himself into the chair, and said, “Hmmm. Maybe you’re not so smart after all—couldn’t finish this one, huh?”

  “Hey, you came in and interrupted me, I was doing just fine.”

  As he stretched out his long legs in front of him and crossed them at the ankles, I caught a suppressed smile on his face and realized he’d just done a great job of changing the subject.

  Mom told me in the hospital my house was rented out, and I was so glad to hear it wasn’t sold I didn’t think about having nowhere to live until Gary said I was getting released. I thought about asking Christina if I could stay at her place, but her ship still wasn’t back in port, then Mom called and said they were coming back up to get me. I knew it would be a huge scene if I told her I didn’t want to stay in the trailer, so I figured I’d just deal with it when I got home.

  The morning of my release Gary warned us photographers were probably waiting outside and suggested we go out the back, but Wayne and Mom had come in the front and Mom didn’t see any. Of course the second we left, a swarm descended upon us. Mom walked in front of me and pleaded with the media to “give us some time.” But you could barely hear her as we fought our way through the surging crowd.

  We pulled into a gas station just outside of Port Northfield, and Mom went inside to pay while Wayne pumped. I hid in the backseat. When Mom got back in the car she tossed a newspaper over the seat and, shaking her head, said, “Someone has a big mouth.”

  MISSING REALTOR RELEASED FROM HOSPITAL! Underneath the front-page headline was an old business photo of me. While Wayne pulled away from the gas station, I read on in shock. An “unidentified source” had informed them I was being released from the hospital today. According to Staff Sergeant Gary Kincade of Clayton Falls, I wasn’t under investigation, I was a brave young woman, they were working hard on identifying the deceased perpetrator….

  I’d never told the cops my baby’s name, but someone had told the newspapers I’d had one, because the article quoted a specialist’s opinion on the effect my baby’s death might have had on me. I chucked the newspaper onto the floor and ground my feet into it.

  SESSION TWENTY-TWO

  Good thing you were able to fit me in today, Doc. If I’d had to deal with this latest shitstorm by myself for much longer, you’d have been visiting me in the nut house. Then again, it’s probably a hell of a lot safer in there. I’m sure you’ve seen me in the news again. Who the fuck hasn’t?

  A couple of nights ago I pulled out the older photo The Freak had of me. Didn’t seem to be any tack marks and I still couldn’t for the life of me think why I’d have had that one at my office. But no matter how much I’ve tried to focus on where else it might have come from, the only image that ever comes to mind is The Freak holding it up like a prize.

  The next morning I headed out for a run. At the end of my driveway I turned right onto the road, and as I ran past a white van parked on the side I called to Emma, who was ahead of me, to wait before she crossed the next road.

  Focused on making sure she’d stopped, I barely noticed the van’s side door opening. As I passed by I caught a flash of a large body wearing black clothes and a ski mask lunging at me. My ankle twisted as I sidestepped and my foot came down on some loose gravel. I hit the sidewalk hard, biting my tongue as my chin connected and scraping my hands on the rough pavement.

  As I struggled to get up, a hand grabbed my ankle and began to drag me back. I clawed at the pavement while trying to yank my leg free. For a moment I was let go and got to my knees, ready to run. Then a large hand slapped over my mouth and an arm circled around my rib cage, lifting me up and slamming me back against a solid torso. The hand over my mouth pressed my head into a shoulder while the arm squeezed the air out of my chest. The body began to move backward. My heels dragged on the pavement. Emma raced down the road barking.

  I wanted to scream, wanted to fight, but I was paralyzed with fear. All I could see was The Freak smiling, all I could feel was his gun pressing into my back.

  We were at the van. The man shifted his weight to one leg and gripped me tighter like he was about to step up. I remembered The Freak closing the door on me, crossing around the front, getting in—

  Focus, dammit! You have seconds, only seconds. Don’t let him get you into the van.

  I bit the hand covering my mouth and kicked back with my legs. Heard a grunt. I jammed elbows in wherever I could, slammed up into what I thought was a chin. I was shoved so hard I sprawled and landed on the hard edge of the curb, hitting my temple. It hurt like hell, but I rolled onto my back. As the guy reached for me, I started screaming as loud as I could and managed to land a kick in his stomach. He groaned but kept trying to grab me.

  I rolled from side to side, punching at his arms and yelling, “HELP! SOMEONE HELP!”

  I heard growling and barking. The man stood back up.

  Emma had hold of his leg, and he was kicking at her.

  “YOU DON’T TOUCH MY DOG, MOTHER-FUCKER!”

  Still on the ground, I braced with my elbows and kicked him hard in the groin. Doubled over, he stumbled backward, groaning and gasping for air, then fell to his knees.

  On my left a woman screamed, “Leave her alone!”

  The man staggered to his feet and tried to get past me to the van but Emma still had hold of his pants. I grabbed the other leg. He shook both of us free and climbed in. Emma narrowly got out of the way as it took off down the road, tires squealing. I tried to see its license plate, but my eyes wouldn’t focus and it was moving fast.

  My breath sounded like I was strangling. I eased up onto my knees and looked over my shoulder. I could just make out my neighbor from across the street running toward us with a phone in her hands. My vision blurred and I collapsed back to the sidewalk.

  “Is she okay?”

  “The police are on their way.”

  “Oh, my God, what happened?”

  I wanted to answer the voices but my body was shaking uncontrollably, my breath came in quick hard pants, and I still couldn’t see clearly. Emma’s fur brushed against my cheek and her warm tongue licked my face. Someone pulled her away, then a woman’s voice said, �
�Can you tell me your name?”

  “Annie. My name’s Annie.”

  “Okay, Annie, help is on the way, just hang in there.”

  Sirens. Uniforms. Somebody put a blanket over me. I answered questions in fragments.

  “A man…black clothes…white van.”

  More sirens, then the uniforms changed.

  “Where does it hurt, Annie?”

  “Try to take some deep breaths.”

  “We’re going to stabilize your neck.”

  “Can you tell us your birth date?”

  Hands on my body. Fingers on my wrist. Numbers shouted out. As I was placed on a stretcher and strapped on, I recognized a voice.

  “She’s my niece, let me in.” Then my aunt’s concerned face looked down at me. I grabbed her hand and burst into tears.

  Aunt Val rode with me to the hospital.

  “Annie, you’re going to be okay. Mark’s calling your mom so she can meet us at the hospital—he’s taking Emma to our house.” I don’t remember much after that, just the feeling of going fast and her hand in mine.

  At the hospital I started hyperventilating again—too many people yelling, babies crying, bright lights, nurses asking questions—so they put me in an observation room to wait for the doctor, but I could still see cops talking to the nurses and my aunt in the hallway.

  I started counting ceiling tiles. A nurse came in and made me squeeze her hand, then took my blood pressure and checked my pupils. I kept counting.

  When the doctor finally arrived and asked all the same questions again, I still kept counting. When they took me for X-rays I counted the machines. When they brought me back to the room and the cops came in with their questions—what was the man wearing, how tall was he, what make was the van—I counted faster. But when a large male nurse came in and suddenly reached for my arm, I started screaming.

  Everyone was told to leave the room. The doctor ordered a nurse to get the Crisis Response Team “down here right away.” I closed my eyes and counted the beats of my racing heart while they talked over me. Someone gave me a shot. More talk, I didn’t follow it. Fingers pressed to my wrist, counting my pulse. I counted along.