Immoral

by Brian Freeman

  “That’s nice. So what was this with Sarah—a slumber party?”

  “No,” she said. “Not that it is any of your business, but Sarah has trouble sleeping. I was showing her relaxation techniques. That’s all.”

  Stride nodded. “Relaxation is good. My partner tells me I should try that, too.”

  “Perhaps your partner should tell you to get to the point faster, Detective. Your little game is transparent and tedious, so why not just ask your questions and let me get back to my work?” For the first time, Nancy Carver smiled, without a trace of warmth.

  Stride smiled back. “Game?”

  “Game. See who can outshrink the other. Remember, I make a living at it. So let’s be honest, shall we, Detective? In addition to whatever investigative conclusions you’ve jumped to, you’ve also already checked me out as a piece of meat. You’ve concluded that I’m not attractive enough to constitute a major loss to the heterosexual community. Nonetheless, you’ve noted that I have an athletic body, and based on my feisty attitude, you’ve figured that if you ever could get me into bed, I’d probably give you a pretty good ride. All of which leads you to fantasize about me making love to other women—and to wonder whether I’m having sex with any of the teenagers here. And you’re hoping if you act flip and challenge my insecurities, you’ll get me to spill some deep dark secret to you.”

  “That’s amazing,” Stride said. “Now tell me who’s going to win the World Series.”

  Carver allowed herself another tight smile. “I’m right, am I not?”

  “Well, since you brought it up, are you having sex with any of the teenagers here?”

  “I do not have sex with underage persons, Detective,” Carver said slowly, emphasizing each word.

  “That’s a good answer. It’s not what I asked, but a good answer. I like the photographs on your door. You seem to take students on a lot of field trips.”

  “I call them feminist learning retreats.”

  “Do underage persons attend any of these retreats?”

  “Of course. With parental permission.”

  “I was wondering whether Rachel ever accompanied you on one of these retreats.”

  “No, she didn’t,” Carver said.

  “How about Kerry McGrath?”

  “No, I never met Kerry. Are you suggesting I am in some way involved in their disappearances?”

  Stride shook his head. “Not at all. I’m just looking for connections.”

  “And why not start with a lesbian activist, right?”

  “It’s amazing how you can read my mind. Did you ever counsel either of these girls?”

  “I don’t counsel people here, Detective.”

  “Well, since you’ve made it clear that you’re not the school’s massage therapist, what exactly is it you do if you’re not a counselor?”

  “I’m a mentor. Or simply a friend. There’s no formal professional relationship involved.”

  “That’s strange, isn’t it?” Stride asked. “I mean, you have both a master’s and a Ph.D. in psychology, and you’re a tenured professor at the University of Minnesota, and I see a lot of books with ‘ology’ in the title on your desk.”

  “It’s not strange at all, Detective. In fact, I could say that you’re responsible for my being here.”

  “Me? How’s that?”

  Carver leaned forward on her desk, her hands neatly folded together, her huge brown eyes boring into him again. “Well, since you never did find Kerry McGrath, you left a lot of female students traumatized around this school.”

  Stride winced. “I’m not following you.”

  “Let me spell it out. After that girl disappeared last August, the school began to have a lot of trouble with the women here. Several of them were skipping classes, bursting into tears, engaging in self-destructive behavior. I offered my services as a volunteer counselor—not in a professional sense but as someone who could relate to them and talk to them about their fears. It’s a measure of how worried the administration was that they didn’t quibble about my politics or sexual preference but welcomed me with open arms. And I found I enjoyed working with the girls. So I made it into a permanent stint, two afternoons a week, and I’ve taken small groups on several retreats, too. I’m not their therapist, although my professional experience is certainly helpful. Mostly, I’m someone these women can talk to.”

  “Did you have a chance to become friends with Rachel?”

  He watched her face, expecting a reaction. There was nothing, not a flinch, no attempt to hide anything, only the same level stare.

  “I knew her,” she said, still betraying nothing.

  “How well?”

  “We met occasionally. She was not one of my regular visitors. And as I mentioned, she never joined us on any of the retreats.”

  “Why did she come to see you?”

  Carver paused. She stared calmly at Stride. “I’m not at liberty to say,” she said finally.

  “Why not?” Stride asked, annoyed. “You were quite adamant that these were not professional relationships, so privilege doesn’t apply, does it?”

  “Privilege would depend on how Rachel perceived the relationship and whether she considered me a therapist. But regardless, she told me certain things only with the condition that they remain strictly confidential between the two of us. I was to tell no one at all. And if I get a reputation as someone who betrays confidences, Detective, I can’t be successful at anything I do in this field.”

  “But surely the situation is different now. The girl has disappeared. If something she said can help us find her, then you owe it to Rachel to tell us.”

  Carver shook her head. “I’m afraid that’s not true at all.”

  “Dr. Carver, this girl could be in serious danger,” Stride insisted.

  “Detective, I know nothing whatsoever that could help you find her. Believe me.”

  “You were telling people at school today that you thought we would never find Rachel. Why? What makes you think that?”

  “You didn’t find Kerry,” Carver replied.

  “Do you have reason to think the two cases are related?”

  “No, I didn’t mean to imply that at all. I have no reason to think so.”

  “And yet you seem certain we won’t find Rachel,” Stride repeated.

  “I’m not certain that she would want to be found,” Carver said.

  Stride’s eyes narrowed. He pushed himself out of the recliner and leaned over the desk, with both hands gripping the edge. He towered over Carver, and he wanted her to feel every inch of his presence. “If you have information, Dr. Carver, I want to know what it is. Don’t make me get a warrant for your arrest.”

  Carver didn’t quaver. She met his eyes and glared at him. “Go ahead, Detective. You can’t arrest me for speculations, and you can’t make me tell you what I don’t know. I told you before, and I’ll tell you again. I don’t know where Rachel is. I don’t know what happened to her. I have no information that would help you find her.”

  “But you think she’s alive,” Stride said. “You think she left voluntarily.”

  “Here’s what I think, Detective. In six months, Rachel Deese will be eighteen years old. At that point, even if you find her, you won’t be able to bring her back.”

  Stride shook his head. “You’re not helping her by staying silent. If she ran away—if she had reason to run away—I need to know it. Look, I’ve met her mother. I know what a battle royal it was between them all the time. But if she’s on her own, alone, she could get into serious trouble. Do I have to tell you what it’s like for most teenage runaways? How many end up homeless? How many get into prostitution?”

  For a moment, he thought he might win. He saw an instant of weakness in Carver’s eyes. She knew he was telling the truth. Then, like a mask, the steel came back down over her eyes.

  “I’m sorry, Detective. I don’t know anything that can help you. Whatever I told people, it’s just my personal opinion.”

  �
�And that is?” Stride asked.

  Carver shrugged. “Just like I said. You’ll never find her.”

  7

  Heather Hubble turned right off Highway 53 and onto a nondescript dirt road about ten miles northwest of Duluth. Her car rocked and bounced on the rutted surface. On the seat beside her, Lissa, her six-year-old daughter, rocked along with the car.

  It was late Thursday afternoon. She wanted to take advantage of the waning light and the lengthening shadows for her photographs of the ruined barn. She had been waiting until the fall colors surrounding her were well past prime. The bright red leaves had turned to rust. The yellows were pale and greenish. Many of the leaves had already fallen and would be littering the field around the barn. That was perfect. The barn, too, was in the advanced stages of decay. The images in her photographs would reinforce each other.

  “I like this road, Mommy,” Lissa said, jumping up and down in her seat. “It’s bouncy and it’s pretty.”

  Lissa pushed her nose against the window, staring into the trees. There was a steady rain of dried leaves floating in the air.

  “How much farther?” Lissa asked impatiently.

  “It’s not far now,” Heather said.

  They rounded a bend, and the barn loomed out of the field on the left side. It was beautiful and romantic in Heather’s eyes; in reality it was a wreck, long since abandoned. Heather didn’t imagine it would last another season, although she had thought that for several years. She assumed the weight of this year’s snow would cave in the rest of the roof, which had already fallen through in several places, leaving jagged holes. The barn’s red paint had faded, chipped, and peeled away. The windows had been broken in by teenagers throwing rocks. The entire frame seemed to list inward, the walls bowed and unsteady. She could probably come back in February and the barn would be no more than a snow-covered pile of splintered beams.

  She pulled into the grassy, overgrown driveway, which wasn’t a real driveway at all but had been worn down by the many visitors to the barn over the years. She parked and got out, and Lissa scrambled out, too.

  “I don’t think I’ve been to this place before, have I, Mommy?” Lissa asked.

  “No, I don’t think so. I think you’ve always been in school when I’ve come here.”

  “It’s not in very good shape, is it?”

  Heather laughed. “No, it’s not.”

  “Can I look around?”

  “Sure. But don’t go inside the barn. It’s not safe.”

  “It looks like the kind of place that could be haunted,” Lissa said. “What do you think?”

  “It might be,” Heather told her.

  “How do you know about this place?” Lissa asked.

  Heather smiled. “I used to come out here when I was a teenager. A lot of us kids did.”

  “What did you do here?” Lissa asked.

  “We just explored a lot. Like you.”

  There was no need to explain the real reason. Back then, she and dozens of other Duluth teenagers came out here to have sex. It was the hottest make-out spot in the county. It got so bad that there was even a secret sign-up sheet passed around school, to make sure there weren’t too many people parked out behind the barn at any one time. Heather’s first sexual experience had been out at the barn, in the back of a pickup truck, under the stars.

  She wondered if today’s students used the barn. There were still plenty of overlapping tire tracks leading around back. She also saw empty beer bottles littering the field. If she looked hard enough, she would probably find used condoms.

  Heather looked down at Lissa again. “Don’t you pick anything up, either.”

  Lissa frowned. “Well, that’s no fun.”

  Heather softened. “You can pick up rocks and sticks, but no people things, okay? If you don’t know what it is, don’t touch it.”

  Lissa shrugged. “Okay.”

  Mother and daughter separated. Heather kept an eye on Lissa as she wandered into the brush. Satisfied that the girl was okay, Heather began scoping out her shot, tramping in the field to find an angle that satisfied her. When she settled on a location and began her setup, she saw Lissa dart behind the barn.

  “Be careful back there,” Heather shouted. Lissa called something in reply, which Heather couldn’t hear.

  She knelt down, looking through the camera’s viewfinder, seeing the image in the frame take shape. The sun, behind her, was approaching the level of the tallest trees. Heather felt a jittery jumping in her stomach and a quiver in her fingers, the way she always did when she knew she was going to get exactly what she wanted. She took a few seconds to measure the light again and adjust the exposure. Then, ready at last, she squeezed the shutter, then again, and again, hearing the motorized whir as the film advanced each time.

  “Mommy!” Lissa shouted from behind the barn. “Come look at this!”

  “In a minute, sweetheart,” Heather called back.

  “Look, look, look,” Lissa cried. She came running from behind the barn.

  “Lissa, Mommy’s busy now. What is it?”

  “Look what I found. Isn’t it pretty?”

  Heather looked away from the camera long enough to notice Lissa holding a gold bracelet. “Where did you find that, sweetheart?”

  “Behind the barn.”

  Heather frowned. “Didn’t I tell you not to pick things up? People things?”

  “Well, yes, but this is different,” Lissa argued.

  “How is it different?”

  “It’s not dangerous or anything. It’s just a bracelet.”

  “Yes, and it’s a bracelet that belongs to somebody else, who’s probably going to come looking for it,” Heather said. “Now put it back where you found it.”

  “You mean I can’t keep it?”

  Heather sighed. It was always this way with Lissa and jewelry. “No, you can’t keep it. It belongs to someone else. Put it back right now.”

  “I don’t think they’d want it anymore,” Lissa complained. “It’s all dirty.”

  “Well, then, why do you want it?”

  Lissa didn’t have an immediate answer. She thought about it. “I could clean it up,” she said.

  “And so could the person who owns it. Now no more arguing. Put it back.”

  Lissa gave up fighting and walked away unhappily, back toward the rear of the barn. Relieved, Heather turned her attention back to her camera. She looked through the viewfinder again.

  Perfect.

  Behind the barn, Lissa reluctantly put the bracelet back where she found it, which was in a muddy patch near the edge of the field. It didn’t really seem fair, though. She didn’t believe that anyone would be coming back for it.

  “But Mommy said so,” Lissa murmured to herself.

  After putting it back, Lissa continued exploring. She already had a successful collection, including several interesting rocks and pretty blue flowers, all of which were stuffed in her coat pockets. She wasn’t aware of time passing. It seemed only an instant later that she looked up and realized the sun had dipped below the trees.

  Just then, she heard her mother calling. “Lissa, come on, it’s time to go!”

  For once, Lissa didn’t need to be told twice. She started running out of the field toward the barn again. As she did, she had to pass right by the puddle, where the bracelet was.

  “Lissa!” her mother called again.

  Lissa thought about it. She really wanted that bracelet, and it was pretty careless of whoever owned it to leave it here. Besides, she could keep it and clean it up, and if the owner ever wanted it, she would be keeping it safe and sound. And she still thought maybe the person had simply thrown it away.

  Mommy just didn’t understand. She didn’t like jewelry anyway.

  Quickly, Lissa bent down, grabbed the bracelet, and crammed it deep into her pocket. “I’m coming,” she called, and ran for the front of the barn.

  PART TWO

  8

  Bird Finch paced the shadows of the studio
, lifting his stilt-like legs over the cables stretched across the floor. No one talked to him. They had all learned long ago that Bird never said a word in the last few minutes before a live broadcast. He was too high. His emotions were churning. He was psyching himself up.

  Tonight the ratings would be sky-high again.

  After three weeks of courting them since Rachel’s disappearance, he had landed the first live interview with Graeme and Emily Stoner. For the first time, they were ready to talk about losing their girl. And they wouldn’t be alone. Joining them on the set was another grieving family, Mike and Barbara McGrath, who had spent more than a year searching fruitlessly for their daughter Kerry. Two families would sit down with him, purge their emotions, and send the police a message.

  There’s a killer stalking the north shore and snatching teenagers off the street.

  Find him.

  Bird stopped and crossed his arms. On the brightly lit set, Graeme and Emily Stoner sat in comfortable chairs while two makeup artists fluttered around them, dabbing at their faces. He saw the McGraths walk up to the Stoners and watched the two families exchange awkward greetings.

  “Two minutes,” a voice on an overhead speaker announced.

  Bird emerged out of the darkness of the studio and crossed the set with the grace of a large cat. He stood like a black tower over his guests, who stared up at him from their four chairs. He smiled at them, revealing paper-white teeth against his black skin. He grabbed each of their hands in turn in a crushing handshake.

  “I want to thank all of you for joining me tonight,” he told them in a sober, rumbling voice, which he reserved for victims. “I can only imagine how hard this is for each of you. But it’s so very important that the rest of the people in this state hear your story. And, God willing, maybe your voices can reach out to your girls, or to whoever stole them away from you.”

  “That’s very kind of you, Mr. Finch,” Barbara McGrath said.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Stoner, I will do everything I can to put you at ease,” he said. “I don’t want you thinking about the camera. Just talk to me. Tell me your story.”