by Carla Norton
Cavanaugh clears his throat and starts again: “My wife wants reassurances.”
“What kind of reassurances?”
“Well, you see…” He shifts again in his seat. “Well, I don’t mean to question your credentials, doctor. I mean, you’re clearly an expert, and the DA and the sheriff have checked you out, and what they’ve said is good enough for me. But my wife, well, she’s protective, you know?”
“Very understandable, yes.” Dr. Lerner waits a beat, then coaxes, “What kinds of reassurances can I give Mrs. Cavanaugh to help her feel more comfortable?”
“Well, the thing is, she wants to talk to one of those other girls that you helped.”
SIX
San Francisco
Reeve is feeding Persephone when she misses Dr. Lerner’s call. She drops in a live cricket, saying, “Enjoy your dinner, kiddo,” then squats to eye level, watching through the glass.
Persephone lives in a terrarium that the guy at the exotic pet store calls “Persie’s Resort.” It has sand, rocks, and cactus-type plants that mimic the Mexican terrain of her origins.
Reeve had weighed the ethics of keeping Persephone for weeks before making up her mind. Dr. Lerner kept suggesting a pet, but how could she justify keeping a dog or cat cooped up in an apartment? A rodent or reptile was out of the question. And keeping any kind of bird locked in a cage seemed beyond cruel; it was criminal.
But she’d had a spider before. Nothing fancy, but it had been her sole company. And Anthony, the young guy with the tattoos who owned the pet store, had repeatedly assured Reeve that Persie had been born in captivity.
“She’s not imprisoned,” Anthony told her. “She’s pampered and secure. She’s fed. She has no predators. And she’s living in the only habitat she has ever known.”
Once Reeve had made up her mind to buy the Mexican red-kneed tarantula, she’d quizzed the shopkeeper about every aspect of her care and feeding, making certain that she understood everything.
Anthony maintained that Mexican red-knees are not social. “So it’s not like she’ll be lonely or anything,” he said, pulling his earring and smiling at her. “See? She likes these nooks and crannies, where she can hide. She’s a beauty, right? And she doesn’t need much room.”
Still, Reeve had insisted on upgrading to the largest terrarium in the store. It’s a warm, well-conceived environment that rests on a low cabinet, and Persie seems content. She is a handsome, private creature who is finicky about her hiding places. Most often, she nests under one particular outcropping of flat rocks that Reeve carefully constructed in the southwest corner.
Persie stealthily creeps from the dark nook, darts out, and seizes the cricket.
Reeve watches Persie for awhile, then realizes that she, too, is hungry. She usually eats at the restaurant, but not today, with all that was going on. She goes into the kitchen and fixes a large cup of hot chocolate. Whole milk. European chocolate. The good stuff.
Pleasantly tired, she settles on the sofa and lets her mind drift. Which leads, inevitably, to the subject of sex.
Sex is a curiosity to her. She knows more than enough about its mechanics, but cannot fathom its intimacies. Being raped is not the same thing as making love. Clearly. But she has no experience of the latter, and has had plenty of the former. Repeated and brutal. Inventive only in the ways to cause pain.
She tries not to think too much about it. Still, no one wants to remain sexless, whatever their affliction.
She has experimented enough to know that she’s capable of achieving orgasm. But when she tries to imagine approaching someone sexually, tries to conjure up a desire for physical intimacy with some particular individual, the idea makes her cringe. Which, she believes, is just one more thing that makes her a freak. And is surely the reason behind the homework Dr. Lerner has assigned.
Sexual intimacy would inevitably present two major problems: nudity and a locked door. Her worst fears.
She knows that, as a twenty-two-year-old American female, she is abnormal. Because, despite all the salacious media chatter about her demographic’s wild behavior, Reeve has had sexual encounters with only three people, and only two as a consenting adult.
Neither was particularly satisfying. The first was a brief experiment with a boy in her driver’s education class. She was eighteen, he was seventeen, and she was self-aware enough to realize that the small difference in those digits put her in the dominant role. Whatever the ethics involved, it was all tremendously stimulating to him, and premature ejaculation was a problem the first time. By the third time, the driver’s ed class was over, and Reeve had lost interest.
The second relationship, if she thinks of it that way, was with a lithe young woman named Tasha whom she’d met at a New Year’s Eve party. Reeve had never thought of herself as a lesbian, but she and Tasha had surprised each other with a kiss at midnight that led to a brief, heated encounter. She was astonished by Tasha’s tenderness, having never been touched that way before.
In both of those encounters, Reeve managed to avoid being naked in a locked room. She and the teenager had grappled in the back seat of his car, which required minimal clothing removal. And she and Tasha had connected once, in a stairwell, almost fully clothed.
Reeve sits on the sofa, finishing her hot chocolate, remembering details, thinking about attraction and repulsion. Sex and fear fight in her skull like the polarized ends of magnets.
Maybe she can’t have intimacy in the same way as normal people. Certainly she can’t change the scars on her skin. But she should be able to control her fear. Because fear is paralyzing, pointless, and a stupid waste of emotion.
Her stomach gives a mild grumble, nagging her that she’s still hungry.
There’s not much in the kitchen, but she eventually comes up with a frozen burrito. She turns on the oven, which she prefers to the microwave, finds a metal pie pan in the cupboard, and places the burrito in the oven to heat.
“Who needs to eat sushi every day, anyway?” she mutters, her own voice sounding cheerless and unconvincing in the empty apartment.
She finds the remote control, clicks on the TV, and is heading back to the kitchen when a television announcer says, “—more about the rescue of a Jefferson County girl who was kidnapped and held captive in a locked basement for thirteen months!”
Reeve’s muscles go slack. She turns toward the screen and folds onto the floor, hit by the cold certainty that this is why Dr. Lerner cancelled next week’s appointment.
The news features a mug shot of the man who was arrested, a clip of the Jefferson County sheriff giving a press conference, followed by photographs of a pretty girl named Tilly Cavanaugh, and lurching videotape of the gloomy basement where the girl was found.
Each detail is like a knife.
The news pauses for commercials and Reeve turns off the TV, but images keep running through her head. Dark walls, locked doors, metal handcuffs. Swollen, purple bruises. Blunt hands holding sharp objects. Police. Glaring hospital rooms and dismal courtrooms.
She knows what’s coming: the rabid news reporters with their relentless questions, the psycho-pundits rehashing old cases. They’ll search for similarities, begin making comparisons, and she’ll hear herself discussed and evaluated along with this new victim.
Something oily turns in her stomach.
They’ll show pictures of Edgy Reggie knocking her fist against the camera lens. They’ll show Daryl Wayne Flint, the celebrity kidnapper, acting crazy in the courtroom. Perfectly groomed newscasters sitting in well-lit studios will discuss the trial, pick over the details of her abuse, and speculate about the psychological effects of years of darkness and boredom and unending terror.
Reeve begins to hyperventilate. This isn’t healthy. She needs to do something.
She looks out the window and sees that it’s raining.
Never mind. She needs to go for a run.
She changes into her gear, puts on a waterproof jacket, and is tying the laces of her sneakers when sh
e starts to sweat. Something sour rises in her throat. She jerks upright, dashes to the bathroom, and barely reaches the toilet before she starts to vomit. Once, twice, three times and her stomach empties. She rests, trembling, but soon the retching begins again, and she’s powerless to stop. The heaving continues, over and over, until she slumps to the floor, exhausted.
Her stomach is tender and her muscles weak. She slowly sits up, catching her breath, fighting the spinning residue of sickness. She finds a tissue and is wiping the dampness from her mouth when she’s jolted by a sudden noise: the burrito burning in the oven has set the smoke alarm screaming.
SEVEN
San Francisco
Wednesday Before Thanksgiving
Fog horns. One is harsh, the other is smoother, more distant. Reeve climbs out of bed, exhaustion clinging to her like sweat. She crosses the room to the window, feeling as if she is dragging hours of the sleepless night with her, and opens the blinds to a view so thickly fogged that even the Ferry Building is swallowed in white.
A flash of nightmare sends a chill shooting up her spine. She shivers, forcing Daryl Wayne Flint out of her mind, and grabs a robe that she draws tight.
She pads into the kitchen to make hot chocolate. Standing barefoot on the cold tile while the milk heats, she considers what to wear to work, then her mind strays to the next day’s holiday, the coming onslaught of food and family. She dreads how Thanksgiving Day will play out. They will be falsely cheerful, tiptoeing around the news, wary of her mood.
Her cell phone rings. Her father. She ignores it, lets it go to voice mail, and a second later notices that Dr. Lerner called last night, as well. Twice.
Her fingers hesitate over the keypad while she fights a gnawing sense of obligation, then she sets the phone aside, resolving not to call anyone until she’s utterly, thoroughly calm.
It’s bad enough that Daryl Wayne Flint has returned to invade her thoughts. Like a ghost, always hovering behind her, muttering over her shoulder, slipping through the cracks into her dreams. She rubs at her hand, resenting that he is etched into her skin, that he is lodged in the numbness that stitches down her left wrist and through her little finger. Shouldn’t she have moved past all this by now, after all these years, regardless of the news?
The news.
The television screen is a black hole that pulls her toward it. The remote waits on the coffee table, a numbered challenge. She hesitates, picks it up, holds her breath, and clicks on the morning news.
She’s just settling down to watch when her cell phone rings again. Seeing Dr. Lerner’s number, she answers with a curt, “Hello.”
“Hello, Reeve, how are you doing?”
“You know how I’m doing.”
“I can guess that you’re upset.”
She makes a nasal, unhappy sound.
“Any flashbacks? Nightmares?”
She sidesteps the question. “I’m singing songs, drinking piña coladas.”
“You’re angry?”
“Just pissed. At the media. At everyone.”
“At me? I’m sorry I had to cancel next week’s appointment. I hope you’ll understand that I’m up here with—”
“With the girl and her family. Of course. I know they need your help.”
“You understand that better than anyone.”
“Yes, I do.”
“But you’re angry because…”
“It’s just that the whole damn media machine is gearing up. And you can see what’s coming.” She inhales deeply and it all comes out in a rush: “All those talking heads, who have no right to be pontificating, who can hardly pronounce captivity syndrome, who haven’t spent five minutes trying to understand a damn thing about what abduction really means, are already all over the news—” she is hit by a wave of anger “—reading off names of victims and their captors like some sick shopping list. Like we’re celebrities with no privacy. While all those caged monsters are salivating in their cells, getting off on the fact that their sick psycho-brothers are out here roaming the streets and doing their disgusting, twisted, evil shit.”
Her speech becomes faster, her voice shriller: “And they’re already showing my old photos on the air and making comparisons and talking talking talking so that I’m back in the news and everything is back in the news and now I’m having to confront all those images and those memories of Daryl Wayne Flint all over again!”
There’s a long moment of silence. Her eyes are wet and she flushes hot with embarrassment.
“Wow,” he says. “That was good.”
“Ha-ha,” she says flatly.
“I mean it. Did you hear the fury in your voice?”
“Yeah, I know, I’m sorry,” she says, wincing.
“But that’s good. I mean, it wouldn’t be good on a regular basis, but today it’s completely justified.”
“Well, I kinda lost it,” she grumbles.
“Don’t you remember how you were at first? That loss of affect?”
She swallows. She does remember. After being rescued from the trunk of Flint’s wrecked car, life had unfolded in slow motion. The safety of being home, even the embraces from her family, had left her feeling disoriented. She’d emerged into a world that felt like an alien planet. No one spoke her language. Not a soul could understand.
“Do you remember?” Dr. Lerner asks again.
She had been raped, beaten, burned, whipped, starved, and nearly drowned. She had thought she would die. She had wished it. And when it was over, she had felt aberrant, as if something vitally human inside her had been crushed. “I was like a zombie. You said I had a flat affect.”
“That’s right. Nothing elicited much more than a shrug.”
“I remember.”
“Well, Tilly Cavanaugh is in a similar state now.”
“She’s in shock.”
“You can think of it that way, yes.”
“Post-traumatic shock.”
“Absolutely, for starters, that’s correct.”
“Okay.” Her breathing is under control now, and she sits on a kitchen stool with her elbows on the counter. “So, what exactly are you saying?”
“Just listen to yourself, Reeve. That anger you feel is understandable and healthy. It shows how strong you’ve become.”
She says nothing. She remembers lying to him about the nightmares and decides it’s time to end this conversation. She tells him she needs to go, but Dr. Lerner asks for one more minute.
“I know it’s an imposition,” he says, “but Tilly Cavanaugh’s mother would like to speak with you.”
“What for?”
“She would like some personal reassurance about my treating her daughter. And, well, she hopes you’ll be honest about your own experience.”
“That’s weird. You mean like a reference?”
“Well, perhaps more like a mother-to-daughter-type talk. Do you see? Because you and Tilly suffered something similar? It’s just that Mrs. Cavanaugh would like to speak with you directly, to help her feel more comfortable about having me oversee Tilly’s care.”
Reeve is speechless. Dr. Lerner’s expertise seems self-evident, and the idea that she should have influence over someone else’s treatment strikes her as bizarre.
“Remember how Beth Goodwin helped with your recovery?” he prods.
“Sure, she was like…” The memory rinses over her. “It sounds corny, but I always think she was like an angel or something.”
“Yes, she was generous with her time, perhaps partly because your parents asked for her help. So can’t you understand why Mrs. Cavanaugh might ask the same of you?”
“But I’m not … Why doesn’t she ask Beth?”
“Her case was quite different, as you know, as well as more remote in time. So they’re asking to speak with you.”
“But I can’t—”
“You don’t need to decide right now. Just think about it, okay? Mull it over, enjoy a nice Thanksgiving with your family, and we’ll talk again soon.”
Reeve groans softly. This is classic Dr. Lerner. Somehow, he always manages to turn her arguments inside out.
His gentle voice continues, “I know it’s asking a lot, but please just consider that these parents are struggling just as yours did six years ago.”
“But how could anything I—”
“Just think about what you might want to say, and we’ll talk when you’re ready. How’s that?”
EIGHT
Jefferson City
At police headquarters Wednesday morning, the man who calls himself Duke strides down the long hallway toward the door marked “SURVEILLANCE,” followed by a man nearly alike in coloring and stature, but younger, trimmer, with more spring in his step, more color in his face, more mischief in his eyes.
Duke turns into his office and has nearly shed his coat when the younger officer grips the door frame and swings in after him. Wearing an eager grin, Officer Tomas Montoya practically bounces on the balls of his feet as he asks, “Did you hear the news?”
Duke settles into his chair before responding. He always assumes the same jocular tone when dealing with Montoya, and it takes a second for him to slip into character. “Let me guess,” he says with a leer, “you got laid?”
“That’s not news,” Montoya scoffs. “That’s a daily occurrence. But this is news. Big news. About Randy Vanderholt.”
Duke cocks an expectant eyebrow.
Montoya’s frame fills the doorway. “You know, that pedophile, the one that kidnapped the Cavanaugh girl?”
“I know who he is, Montoya.” Duke rolls his eyes to keep the anticipation from showing on his face. “What about him?”
“He hung himself!” Montoya sounds gleeful.
“No shit?”
“Yep, they found him this morning.”
“Well, that didn’t take long, did it?” Duke sits back in his leather chair and allows a smile. He can always count on Montoya, who works with him on various task forces, to stop by with the latest gossip. The guy’s as chatty as a teen on Twitter. And this news is precisely what Duke has been waiting to hear.
