Pretty Girls

by Karin Slaughter

  Claire sat back on her heels. She knew the name Penelope Ward. Branch Ward was running against Congressman Johnny Jackson for his seat. Jackson was the same congressman who’d started Paul on his road to success. He was also the reason Jacob Mayhew had given Claire for his presence at the house the day of the burglary.

  Mayhew had told her, “The congressman asked me to handle this personally,” and Claire’s mind had wandered into kickbacks and fraud because she had assumed Jackson was covering his ass. Was there another reason? If Mayhew was involved, did that mean that Johnny Jackson was, too?

  Lydia asked, “What?”

  Claire didn’t share the revelation. They could let the various state agencies figure this out. Instead, she looked back up at the house. “I don’t want Julia’s tapes to be part of it.”

  Lydia nodded again. “What are we going to tell Mom?”

  “We have to tell her that we know Julia is dead.”

  “And when she asks how we know?”

  “She won’t ask.” Claire knew this for a fact. A long time ago, Helen had made a conscious decision to stop seeking out the truth. Toward the end of Sam’s life, she wouldn’t even let him mention Julia’s name.

  Lydia asked, “Do you think it’s Paul’s father in the video?”

  “Probably.” Claire stood up. She didn’t want to sit around trying to figure this out. She wanted to call in the ­people who could actually do something about it. “I’ll get the tapes with Julia.”

  “I’ll help.”

  “No.” Claire didn’t want to put Lydia through seeing any part of the video again. “Start making the phone calls. Use the landline so they can trace the number.” Claire walked over to the wall-­mounted phone. She waited for Lydia to pick up the receiver. “We can put the Julia tapes in the front trunk of the Tesla. No one will think to check there.”

  Lydia dialed 911. She told Claire, “Hurry. This isn’t going to take long.”

  Claire walked into the den. Mercifully, the picture on the television was black. The videotapes were stacked on top of the console.

  She called to Lydia, “Do you think we should drive back into town and wait?”

  “No!”

  Claire guessed her sister was right. The last time she’d left this to the police, Mayhew had managed her like a child. She pressed the EJECT button on the VCR. She rested her fingers on the cassette. She tried to summon into her brain an image of Julia that wasn’t taken from the movie.

  It was too soon. All she could see was her sister in chains.

  Claire would destroy the videos. Once they were safe, she would spool out all the tape and burn them in a metal trash can.

  She slid the cassette out of the machine. The handwriting on the label was similar to Paul’s but not exactly the same. Had Paul found the tape after his father died? Was that what had first sparked his interest? Julia disappeared almost a year before his parents’ car accident. Five years later, Paul was wooing Claire at Auburn. They were married less than two months after her father had killed himself. Claire could no longer cling to the idea of coincidences, which begged the question: Had Paul designed all of this from the moment he recognized Julia in his father’s videotape collection? Was that what had set him on the path toward Claire?

  Absent a written explanation, Claire knew that she would never know the truth. Julia’s death had haunted her for the last twenty-­four years. Now the mystery of what had really gone wrong with her husband would haunt her for the remaining decades.

  She slid the tape back into the cardboard sleeve. She wrapped the rubber band around the stack of cassettes.

  She smelled Paul’s aftershave.

  The scent was faint. She put her nose to the tapes. She closed her eyes and inhaled.

  “Claire,” Paul said.

  She turned around.

  Paul stood in the middle of the room. He was wearing a red UGA sweatshirt and black jeans. His head was shaved. His beard had grown in. He had on thick plastic glasses like the ones he’d worn back in college.

  He said, “It’s me.”

  Claire dropped the tapes. They clattered at her feet. Was this real? Was this happening?

  “I’m sorry,” Paul said.

  Then he drew back his fist and punched her in the face.

  v.

  I must confess, sweetheart, that I have been neglecting my wall of clues. My “useless gallimaufry,” your mother called it on the one and only occasion she deigned to look at my work. I sagely agreed with her observation but of course I went running to the dictionary as soon as she was gone.

  Gallimaufry: a hodgepodge; a confused jumble of various ­people or things; any absurd medley.

  Oh, how I adore your mother.

  These last ten months that I have been visiting Ben Carver at the prison, I have gone to bed many times without giving my gallimaufry a second glance. The collection has become so mundane that my mind has turned it into a piece of art, more a reminder that you are gone than a road map to getting you back.

  It wasn’t until I read Ben’s inscription inside the Dr. Seuss book that I remembered a note from Huckleberry’s files. It’s been there from the beginning, or at least since I started my annual reading ritual on the anniversary of your birthday. Why is it that we always neglect the things that matter most? This is a universal question, because through the days and weeks and months and years after your disappearance, I understood that I did not cherish you enough. I never told you that I loved you enough. I never held you enough. I never listened to you enough.

  You would likely tell me (as your mother has) that I could rectify this deficit with your sisters, but it is human nature to yearn for the things we cannot have.

  Have I told you about Claire’s new young man, Paul? He certainly yearns for Claire, though she has made it clear that he can have her. The match is an uneven one.

  Claire is a vibrant, beautiful young woman. Paul is neither vibrant nor particularly attractive.

  After meeting him, your mother and I had some fun at the boy’s expense. She called him Bartleby, after the well-­known scrivener: “pallidly neat, pitiably respectable, incurably forlorn.” I likened him more to some form of rat terrier: arrogant. Easily bored. Too smart for his own good. Partial to ugly sweaters. I opined that he is the kind of man who, absent the right kind of attention, can do great harm.

  Is this last sentence revisionist thinking? Because I can clearly remember sharing your mother’s Bartleby appraisal the first time we met Paul: annoying and harmless and likely to soon be shown the door.

  It is only now that I see the meeting in a more sinister light.

  Claire brought him home during the Georgia–Auburn game. In the past, I have always felt slightly sorry for any man Claire brings home. You can see it in their eager eyes that they think this is something—­meeting the girl’s parents, touring the town where she grew up, just around the corner is love, marriage, the baby carriage, etc. Sadly for these young men, the opposite tends to be true. For Claire, a trip to Athens typically heralds the end of a relationship. For your baby sister, this town is tainted. The streets are tainted. The house is tainted. Perhaps we—­your mother and I—­are tainted, too.

  Pepper had warned us in advance about Claire’s new beau. She seldom approves of her sister’s boyfriends (likewise, Claire never approves of hers; I feel certain you would have been their tie breaker), but in this instance, Pepper’s description of Paul was not only alarming, but also spot-­on. I have rarely had such a visceral reaction to a person. He reminds me of the worst kind of student I used to have—­the kind who is certain that they already know everything worth knowing (which invariably leads to an animal’s unnecessary suffering).

  If I am being honest, the thing about Paul Scott that bothered me the most was the way he touched my daughter in front of me. I am not an old-­fashioned man. Public displays of
affection are more likely to make me smile than blush.

  And yet.

  There was something about the way this man touched my youngest child that set my teeth on edge. His arm linked through hers as they walked up to the house. His hand stayed at her back as they climbed the stairs. His fingers laced through hers as they walked through the door.

  Reading back that last paragraph, it all sounds so innocuous, the typical gestures of a man who is making love to a woman, but I must tell you, sweetheart, that there was something so deeply unsettling about the way he touched her. His hand literally never left her body. Not once the entire time they were in front of me. Even when they sat on the couch, Paul held her hand until she was settled, then he threw his arm around her shoulders and spread his legs wide, as if the girth of his testicles had turned his kneecaps into oppositely polarized magnets.

  Your mother and I exchanged several glances.

  He is a man who is comfortable airing his opinions, and confident that every single word that comes out of his mouth is not just correct, but fascinating. He has money, which is evident from the car he drives and the clothes he wears, but there is nothing moneyed about his attitude. His arrogance comes from his intelligence, not from his wallet. And it must be said that he is clearly a brilliant young man. His ability to at least sound informed on any subject matter points to a voracious memory. He clearly understands details if not nuance.

  Your mother asked about his family, because we are southern and asking about someone’s family is the only way we can distinguish the chaff from the wheat.

  Paul started with the basics: his father’s tour in the navy, his mother’s secretarial schooling. They became farmers, salt of the earth ­people who supplemented their income with bookkeeping and seasonal work with the UGA grounds crew. (As you know, this latter part-­time work is not uncommon. Everyone at some point or another ends up working in some capacity for the school.) There were no other relatives but for a seldom-­seen uncle on the mother’s side who passed away Paul’s freshman year at Auburn.

  It was because of his childhood isolation, Paul said, that he wanted a big family—­a fact that should have pleased your mother and me, but I saw her back stiffen alongside mine, because the tone in his voice indicated just how he would go about achieving that.

  (Trust me, sweetheart, there is a reason centuries of fathers have fought brutal wars to protect the concept of Immaculate Conception.)

  After relaying the basics, Paul got to the part of his history that made your little sister’s eyes glisten with tears. That was when I knew he had her. It seems harsh to say that Claire never cries for anyone, but if you only knew, my sweet girl, what became of us after you disappeared, you would understand that she didn’t cry because there were no tears left.

  Except for Paul.

  As I sat there listening to the story of his parents’ car accident, I felt some old memories stirring. The Scotts died almost a full year after you were gone. I remember reading about the pileup in the newspaper, because by that time, I was reading every page in case there was some story that connected back to you. Your mother remembers hearing from a patron at the library that Paul’s father was decapitated. There was fire involved. Our imaginations ran wild.

  Paul’s version of events is far more rosy (he is certainly the boot-­strapper in this story), but I cannot fault a man for wanting to own his past, and there is no denying that the tragedy works its magic on Claire. For so many years, ­people have been trying to take care of your little sister. I think with Paul, she finally sees an opportunity to take care of someone else.

  If your mother were reading this letter, she would tell me to get to the point. I suppose I should, because the point is this:

  Here is the inscription Ben Carver wrote for me in the Dr. Seuss book:

  “First you must have the images. Then come the words.” —­Robert James Waller.

  Images.

  Ben had taken and distributed images of his crimes. This was part of his legend, his infamy. There were said to be hundreds of photographs and films on the black market that showed him with various victims. But Ben was already in prison. He was not giving me a clue to his own crimes. He was giving me a clue to his competition.

  Images.

  I had read that word before—­many times before.

  As with all the suspects in your disappearance, Huckleberry blacked out one particular man’s name, but here are the details I transcribed from a deputy investigator’s notes in your case file:

  XXXXXX XXXXX Peeping Tom. Seasonal gardener for UGA grounds crew, arrested 1/4/89; 4/12/89; 6/22/90; 8/16/91—­all charges dropped. Targets older female teens, blonde, attractive (17–20). MO: stands outside ground-­floor windows and takes what he calls “images”—­photographs or recordings of women in various states of undress. Deceased 1/3/1992 (car accident; wife also deceased; 16 y.o. son in boarding school/Alabama).

  Images.

  The Peeping Tom was alive when you went missing. He sought out young women around your age, around your hair color, around your beauty. Had he stood outside the window to your ground-­floor bedroom and taken images of you? Had he watched you brush your hair and talk to your sisters and undress for bed? Had he seen you on campus when he was working for the grounds crew? Had he followed you to the Manhattan that night? Had he followed you again when you left the bar?

  Had he decided that his images were not enough?

  You may be wondering how Ben Carver got his hands on a copy of your case file. As I told you earlier, Ben is somewhat of a celebrity, even in prison. He receives correspondences from all around the world. According to the warden, Ben traffics in information. This is how he gets extra meals and protection inside the dangerous walls of death row. He finds out what ­people want to know and he doles it out to them at his pleasure.

  Images.

  How did Ben know that this word of all words would jog my memory? That it would send me running back to my wall, shuffling through my stack of notebooks, looking for the words I had transcribed from your file almost six whole years ago?

  After ten months, after forty-­eight visits, did Ben know my mind that well?

  The question will remain unanswered. Ben is the type of psychopath who claims he likes the wind to direct his sails, but occasionally, I have seen him dip his hand into the water, rudder-­like, to change the course.

  And with that one word—­images—­he changed the course of my life.

  The Peeping Tom’s name was Gerald Scott.

  His son is your baby sister’s new boyfriend.

  CHAPTER 12

  Claire opened her eyes. The popcorn ceiling had a brownish tinge. The shag carpet felt damp against her back. She was lying on the floor. A pillow was under her head. Her tennis shoes were off.

  She sat up.

  Paul.

  He was alive!

  Claire felt a singular moment of absolute elation before she came hurtling back down to earth. Then her mind filled with questions. Why had he faked his death? Why had he fooled her? Who had helped him? What was he doing at the Fuller house? Why had he punched her?

  And where was her sister?

  “Lydia?” Claire could barely get out the word. Her throat was on fire. She pulled herself up to standing. She fought a rushing nausea as she stumbled against the television. Her cheekbone sent out small explosions of pain. “Liddie?” she tried. Her voice was still hoarse, but the panic spurred her to scream as loud as she could. “Liddie?”

  There was no answer.

  Claire ran down the hallway toward the garage. She threw open the door. The videotapes. The chains. The blood. They were all still there, but no Lydia. She pulled the door shut behind her as she ran back down the hallway. She checked the bedrooms, the bathroom, the kitchen, her panic ratcheting higher with each vacant room. Lydia was gone. She was missing. Someone had taken her.
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  Paul had taken her, just like his father had taken Julia.

  Claire ran onto the back porch. She scanned the field behind the house. She jogged around to the front, her heart pounding like a jackhammer. She wanted to scream and cry and rail. How had this happened again? Why had she let Lydia out of her sight?

  The Tesla was still parked in the driveway. The car door handles slid out when Claire approached. The system had sensed the key fob, which had somehow ended up in her back pocket. Both her purse and Lydia’s were dumped out on the front seat of the car. The burner phone was gone. A long, orange extension cord snaked from the front porch to the driveway and connected to the cable that charged the Tesla.

  Inside the house, the phone started to ring.

  Claire ran toward the back. She stopped at the kitchen door. She wanted to go in, to answer the phone, but she found herself paralyzed with fear. She stared at the ringing phone. It was white. The cord hung below, stopping several feet short of the floor. Their kitchen phone in the house on Boulevard had a cord that could stretch into the pantry because that was the only place for years that any of them could talk with a modicum of privacy.

  Lydia was gone. Paul had taken her. This was happening. She couldn’t stop it. She couldn’t hide in her room with her headphones on and pretend the world outside was still spinning blissfully on its axis.

  Claire forced herself to go into the kitchen. She pressed her palm against the phone but did not pick it up. She felt the cold plastic under her hand. This was a sturdy, old Princess phone, the kind you used to rent monthly from Southern Bell. She could feel the vibrations of the metal bell ringing through her palm.

  The answering machine had been turned off. A pillow had been placed under her head. Her shoes had been removed. The Tesla was being charged.

  She knew whose voice she would hear before she even picked up the phone.

  Paul said, “Are you all right?”

  “Where’s my sister?”

  “She’s safe.” Paul hesitated. “Are you okay?”