by Carla Norton
It has been a surprisingly lively conversation, in Reeve’s opinion.
Tilly fidgets beside her.
“Your mom’s a smart lady,” Reeve remarks.
Tilly hums a note of agreement, watching Reeve with her gray eyes. Then she sits up tall. “Could I ask you something?”
“Sure.” Reeve inhales, anticipating some weighty questions about love or acceptance. As if she’s got a clue. Dating is tough enough for most people, but nearly impossible for someone like Reeve, for whom answering the mildest query about her life is like choosing among sticks of dynamite.
“Sure,” she repeats, trying not to grimace. “You can ask me anything.”
Tilly leans over, grips Reeve’s thigh, peers into her face, and whispers, “Would you help me convince my mom to let us move? I mean, like, now? Like, really, really soon?”
TWENTY
Duke’s chair rolls smoothly across the hardwood floor. He is comfortable in his favorite chair as he monitors the various listening stations in his private control room. He’s rolling and listening and congratulating himself for having thought so far ahead and having executed his plans so well.
Exactly as he had with the families of the other two girls.
It’s a brilliant arrangement.
Finding the perfect mark was not always easy, but Duke is a patient man with unique skills. He perfected a method: investigate recent parolees, then target a few who just happen to spend a lot of time around playgrounds, water parks, and school yards.
He would wait and watch, which is exactly what he is trained to do.
Clearly, Duke would have the most influence over the particular ex-cons who shared some of his tastes, but had never been arrested for a sex crime. He had no interest in contacting registered sex offenders. Only a fool would want to pair up with damaged goods.
Upon identifying the proper target, he would track the parolee until some lapse in judgment and behavior provided enough leverage. Then, Duke would don a disguise, usually a full beard and glasses, and approach the man. He would first present evidence of the ex-con’s recent transgressions and threaten him: “One photo sent anonymously to your parole officer, and you’ll be back in prison.”
Blackmail always worked.
He would watch his target flush and squirm. Once he was satisfied, he would back off and allow the parolee to catch his breath. Next, he would pretend to consider options. He would let the target hope, and then slowly, bit by bit, offer a proposition.
He would lay out the plan in simple, tantalizing terms. And then he would bring out the photographs and watch the man’s pupils dilate.
No one ever turned him down. And it all worked perfectly, with minimal risk to Duke.
Each felon undertook the actual abduction. They weren’t smart enough to put together the plan, but apparently enjoyed a sense of adventure in executing the task. And the beauty of it was, if anything went wrong, Duke was in the clear. No one in law enforcement would ever believe that the kidnapper was anything less than one hundred percent to blame, no matter what his story.
Duke’s efforts remained in the background until the proper time. He found the girl, procured the location, prepared the basement. He refined every aspect of the kidnapping so that he was never in jeopardy.
Once the girl was secure, the keeper shouldered the dull, daily burdens of feeding and cleaning up after her. Duke had zero interest in dealing with messy routine. No, his special thrill came in establishing dominance over the girl, as well as her keeper.
He got to rape the girls first. The virgins were always his prize.
And his repayment was also monetary, because some nominal rent, of course, must be paid.
Later, whenever he wanted to visit, he just called and ordered the keeper to make preparations. Brilliant.
The ex-cons were his minions. The girls were his harem. Everything was working beautifully until Randy Vanderholt managed to screw it up. A flash of anger shoots through him. It has been days since he has allowed himself to indulge in a session with one of his girls. Instead, he must settle for the nominal stimulation provided by electronic monitoring.
Duke shifts in his chair and resets the recording to a preferred section. He hears Tilly’s dispassionate voice. She is answering Jackie Burke’s probing questions.
He settles back and gets comfortable, listening to Tilly’s matter-of-fact descriptions. He sees the scenes exactly as they unfolded, because he was the one who was there, not Vanderholt. When Tilly describes how he pushed into her, breaking her hymen and making her bleed, he indulges the vision for a moment and relishes the stiffening of his cock.
Ordinarily, this would be the perfect time to pay one of his pets a call, but it is foolish to even consider acting on this impulse now, thanks to the idiotic behavior of Randy Vanderholt.
Tilly had been Duke’s favorite—so petite, so moistly terrified—and now she is gone and the other two will have to be off-limits until things quiet down.
Picturing Vanderholt comfortably drugged and warm in the infirmary, Duke jumps out of his chair with a curse.
Time for a cigarette.
The control room has too much valuable equipment to risk smoke contamination, so Duke shuts the heavy door behind him and hurries down the hall, through the living room to the kitchen, where he keeps his cigarettes.
He strikes a match and inhales. His mind clears as he smokes, stepping over to the side windows that overlook his carport and yard. He likes this vantage point. He likes to stand and smoke while surveying his property. It’s a large piece of land, stretching between the road and the river, a wild landscape of native oaks and resinous pines. It’s not unusual to see deer, raccoons, river rats, or an occasional fox.
Today something else moves in the brush. Duke glares out the window at the big yellow tomcat slinking across his yard. Quickly stubbing out his cigarette, he sweeps up the air rifle that he always keeps handy, pumps it hard, and cracks open the side door. The cat has crouched low, watching a bird about twenty yards out.
Duke takes aim, squeezes the trigger, and the cat lets out a screech as it darts into the brush.
He throws the gun down in disgust. He could have easily killed the cat with a rifle, but can’t risk gunfire. Especially now, with the suburbs encroaching on his acreage. Seems like there’s always some busybody out walking a dog or repairing a fence. And Duke has no control over the river, so a stray bullet might ding a passing boat. All sorts of idiots are out there, just itching to file a report.
He retrieves the air rifle and sets it back in its spot, cracking the butt a tad too hard on the tile, feeling another stab of anger toward Randy Vanderholt.
TWENTY-ONE
Everyone recommended Gigi’s as Jefferson City’s best Italian restaurant. It is tucked down an obscure street on a poorly lit corner that isn’t visible from the main drag. Thanks to the Cavanaughs’ careful directions, Reeve and Dr. Lerner manage to navigate the route, and they find Gigi’s parking lot crowded for such an unlikely spot.
Wonderful aromas greet them as they enter. There’s a pleasant hum of conversation above the music—acoustic guitar—played by a musician near the back. They are promptly seated at a table beside a wall-sized mural of an Italian village. While they consult their menus, a well-dressed man who seems to be the owner moves from table to table, greeting customers, setting out baskets of fresh, warm bread.
The crowd consists mainly of couples, and the men are mostly clean shaven. Reeve sees only one baseball cap and a single man with a moustache. She dips a crusty bite of bread into a small dish of olive oil and tastes it, humming a note of appreciation.
After they’ve ordered, Dr. Lerner says, “We haven’t had much chance to speak privately. So tell me: What do you think of Tilly?”
She has been gnawing at this very question. Tilly is the only person she’s met who shares such a closely parallel history. In ways both simple and profound, Tilly’s story seems to echo her own. “She’s quiet, but she’s a lot stronger than I tho
ught she would be. Stronger than I was.”
“Your physical and mental conditions were worse, and you were in deep shock, Reeve. Your captivity was much longer, and in many ways more traumatic.”
Reeve strokes the numbness that starts near the scars on her left wrist and continues all the way to the tip of her little finger. She has never determined whether the nerve damage is from being cuffed and suspended for too long, or from breaking her hand when she tried to fight. “We have some similar scars,” she says, “but I hated talking to the prosecutor, remember?”
“Which brings up the issue of the trial. That was a long and awful ordeal for you, so I thought it was extraordinary that Tilly asked for that meeting with Jackie Burke.”
“I thought so, too. It’s like she’s in a rush to get it all over with.”
“Maybe she is.” He dabs a piece of fresh bread in olive oil and pops it into his mouth, looking thoughtful.
“Well, now that she has given her statement to Burke, maybe the worst is over. Or at least until the trial.”
Reeve looks up as three new customers come in the door, then settles back and looks around. The decor is a warmly peculiar mix of Americana with rustic Tuscan. Each table has the traditional red-and-white checkered tablecloth with a quirky set of salt-and-pepper shakers. Their set is a cow and a moon.
Their food arrives and they address it in silence, with the reverence of the truly hungry. After several bites, Dr. Lerner asks, “How’s your risotto?”
“Fabulous. How’s your ravioli?”
“Outstanding.” He lifts his glass of Chianti, and asks, “So, what do you think of Tilly’s haircut?”
“She looks like a young, dark-haired Justin Bieber, doesn’t she?”
“What do you think about the color?”
“That it’s a lot like mine? Hard not to notice.”
“So, you two had a good day today?”
“Well, we understand each other. But her brother,” she adds with a sour expression, “he’s another story.”
“This kind of thing is hard on siblings, particularly brothers of that age,” Dr. Lerner says, nodding. “You can bet he’s getting all kinds of strange reactions from kids at school. He wants to protect his kid sister, but doesn’t know how to act.”
“You think that’s it?”
“Even trained adults can have a hard time dealing with these kinds of situations. Which is why the Cavanaughs so appreciate your help with Tilly.”
With a fleeting smile, she says, “It’s kind of like we belong to the same tribe.”
“You are both survivors.” He takes a sip of his wine. “Any nightmares lately?”
“You know, it’s funny, but I haven’t had a single one since I’ve been up here.”
“Funny how?”
“Well, I had a rough time when I first heard about Tilly. But since coming up here, since actually meeting her, I’ve been fine.” She had expected recurrent nightmares, but except for a fitful hour or two, has plunged into pools of deep sleep.
“And why do you think that’s the case?”
She squints at him. “Once a shrink, always a shrink, right?”
“Guilty.”
“Okay.” She sets down her fork. “It seems pretty pedestrian, but seeing her makes me realize how far I’ve come. Maybe I’m not as gentle and wise as Beth Goodwin, but I can assume that sort of role. I can help.”
He smiles at her, tipping his glass in a toast. “You are indeed uniquely qualified. And you’ve been an enormous help.” After a moment, he adds, “You know, Tilly’s family has told me more than once how very grateful they are that you came up here. In fact, they’d like you to stay.”
“What?”
“Don’t worry, I told them that’s not possible.”
“Right. You’re her therapist,” she says, absently rubbing the tiny ridges of the healed bone in her little finger. “Why would they even ask?”
“They see that Tilly is bonding with you, and they’d like you to continue meeting with her, but I told them it’s too much of an imposition, that these sessions raise painful memories for you.”
“Well, sure.” She cocks her head. “But do they really think I’m helping? She seems so…”
“It’s going to be rocky for a while, of course. For all of them. Because the Cavanaughs are suffering through a painful adjustment. That’s true in every case.”
Reeve is hit with a pang of sympathy for Tilly’s family, followed by a surge of guilt over how she had treated her own. How churlish she had been. How selfish. She had spent hours alone in her room, wrapped in a sulk, punishing them and herself with isolation.
He leans forward, his voice low but intense. “Tilly is just beginning to reclaim her life, and healing takes time, as you know.”
“Sure. I mean, I understand what she’s going through better than anyone else.” A frown creases her forehead. “So if they want me to stay, maybe I should.”
“Oh no, that’s way beyond what anyone expects of you. You’ve done enough. Everyone underst—”
“Does Tilly want me to stay?”
“Well, of course, but—”
“Okay then. If I can help Tilly, I’ll stay on.”
He shakes his head. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
“Why not? You just said I’m uniquely qualified.”
“Well, it’s a serious—”
“Weren’t you just saying that Tilly’s family isn’t equipped to offer what she needs? That they’re suffering through their own adjustment?”
“Reeve, you can’t—”
“Listen, the main reason I’m here is because our cases are so similar, because Tilly and I were about the same age when we were taken, and we were both held captive by sadists.”
He gives a shrug, conceding her point.
“But that’s only part of it. We’re almost like sisters. And I understand her also because I’ve read a lot of the literature. You know that, right?”
“Well, sure.”
“I mean, I’ve read all of your scholarly articles.”
He gives a half-grin. “Fishing for compliments?”
“I’ve also read Lawler, Auerbach, Zarse, and Ochberg.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “Impressive. But I doubt you’ve read any of the profilers, the guys from the FBI’s Behavioral Sciences Unit.”
She leans forward and raps on the table as she lists the names: “Dietz. Hazelwood. Douglas. McCrary. Ressler.”
“How about Cantor and Price, from Australia? And Favaro’s study, the one about trauma among kidnap victims in Italy?”
“Please.” She rolls her eyes. “Favaro’s study was weak, at least in terms of captivity syndromes.”
“You’ve read all that?”
“See?”
He laughs. “Okay, point made. You’ve practically got an honorary degree.” He takes a sip of water, keeping his eyes on her.
“It’s not like I’m trying to replace you or anything. You’re still her therapist. But Tilly has no sister, no other girlfriends she can talk to.”
“You’re really sure you want to do this?”
“Absolutely. We survived similar ordeals, and how many people can say that?” She sits back, crossing her arms. “Besides, if the Cavanaughs want me to stay, it’s a free country.”
“Burke will spit bullets,” he says, shaking his head.
“Why would she care? You’re still her expert witness, you’re still the name with the golden credentials. As long as I stay under the radar, what difference does it make to Burke?”
He exhales heavily.
“It’s not like I’m going to impede the prosecution of her case,” Reeve says, mimicking Burke’s hoarse manner of speech. “I’ll just be hanging around eating cookies with Tilly. Besides, I have no plans, no job, no life, and I’m embarrassingly free.”
“If you’re sure,” Dr. Lerner says, turning up his palms in a gesture of surrender, “the Cavanaughs will be delighted. And on second thought,
it might be good for both of you.”
“Both of us? How’s that?”
He says nothing, giving her an enigmatic look.
She studies him, sensing a deeper meaning. “Okay, I get it,” she says finally. “Your suggestion that I establish a personal connection with someone, is that it?” She rolls her eyes. “I suppose it’s better than having an affair with the hot guy at the pet store.”
“Oh? You never mentioned anyone.”
“Just kidding. Never mind. Anyway, if I’m going to stay, I guess I’ll have to go shopping. I didn’t bring enough clothes.”
* * *
Back in her hotel room, Reeve sprawls on the bed and calls Anthony to ask him to take care of Persephone.
“When will you be back?” he wants to know.
“I don’t know. Not long, I don’t think, but I hadn’t planned on leaving her alone for more than a weekend. Can you help me out?”
Anthony laughs. “It just so happens that emergency spidersitting is my specialty.” He knows just what to do, and he lays it all out for her.
She listens carefully and agrees to call the building supervisor, a matronly woman named Helen, to arrange for brief entry into her apartment. Once they’ve covered the logistics, she says, “One more thing: You didn’t mention how much you’ll charge.”
“Are you kidding? For a beauty like Persie? Just promise me you’ll be back soon.”
Next, Reeve calls her father to let him know she won’t be coming home for at least a few more days. When she tells him she’s going to be working as a kind of mentor for Tilly, the words feel foreign in her mouth.
“That’s great, kiddo. It seems you’re entering new territory, forming this bond with her.” She can hear the pride in her father voice. Then he sighs and adds, “Does this mean you’re not Dr. Lerner’s patient anymore?”
She suffers a pang of regret. If she is not his patient she’s—what?—his former patient? Is that even possible? Or is she like a recovered alcoholic, forever defined by her condition? “Well, yeah, maybe I’ve finally crossed over to some version of adulthood,” she says begrudgingly.
