by Carla Norton
“Oh shit, he sat here and ate his gun?”
“Here’s the Glock,” the first man says, pointing at the gun with the toe of one black boot.
“There’s the casing,” says another, nodding at the floor.
“Hey, check this out,” says the first, pointing.
A sheet of paper neatly lined up on the corner of the desk has only two printed words: “I’m sorry.” Beside it rests an open map of Jefferson County, black Xs on three different spots.
Agent Martin cranes her neck, studies the map, her heart racing, then straightens and taps the first man’s shoulder. “Okay, we’re done here. Back out, people,” she says. “Leave the scene uncompromised. But stay frosty. We’ve got one more location to check out. And this time, let’s hope to God we find a live one.”
SEVENTY
It’s nearly daylight and Otis Poe is exhausted, but he’s thrilled to be here, the sole reporter walking the halls of St. Jude’s Hospital, scooping every other news outlet. He can hardly wait to tell his girlfriend.
The emergency staff at St. Jude is abuzz with the news: Both Abby Hill and Hannah Creighton have been found alive!
Abby Hill was discovered at a remote location and choppered in, Poe has learned. One nurse gushed to him that the rescue helicopter descended out of the sky “like a bright, avenging angel,” and Poe can picture the whole scene: the chopper settling down on the pad atop the north wing, the hospital staff rushing out in a coordinated ballet, unloading the gurney, rolling the awake and blinking girl quickly through the winter air to the waiting elevator.
He knows that both girls are already resting comfortably, and that both are shockingly pale. Abby Hill, he’s told, is especially thin.
“Found in the cellar of some goddamn Unabomber mountain shack,” mutters a trauma nurse. “I know all about it,” she adds, “because I saw her brought in.”
The hospital staff is electrified by rumors. Everyone says the girls are suffering from malnourishment and dehydration, as well as sexual trauma. Those in a position to confirm the actual details about their physical conditions aren’t talking, but someone claiming to know says that both girls have suffered similar burns, a pattern of round scars, clearly made by cigarettes.
“Oh my lord,” one nurse whispers to another, “like they were branded! Can you believe that?”
Poe soaks up every detail.
He got a tip and arrived early, just after Abby’s family burst into the hospital, wild with relief. He wishes he could have seen how they laughed and cried and hugged their daughter to them, careful of the tubes feeding into the girl’s veins, alarmed by her bony protrusions and animal smells.
While both girls are getting topnotch medical treatment, Poe has learned that their kidnappers are already cooling in the morgue. He doesn’t have the two men’s IDs yet, but soon he’ll collect all those details.
For now, he can only speculate that the Hostage Rescue Team used plastic explosives to breach the doors, that the kidnappers were killed in firefights, that the girls were found shackled, crying. But he needs specifics. He needs confirmation.
He’s especially confused about Hannah Creighton. One EMT swears that she walked in through the emergency room entrance with her own family, and that she had somehow found her way home. But how could she have escaped? Poe can’t even begin to get his head around that one.
He tries to sneak down the hallway to the ICU, but a stiff-backed, uniformed guard blocks the door, snarling, “Don’t even think about it, man.”
Poe backs off, turns, and decides it’s time to go. He already has plenty of news to fill his blog, plus a hundred column inches for the newspaper. By this time tomorrow, if he pushes, he could have almost enough to finish his book. But he’s got one more source to check with before calling it a night. His best source. Someone who supplies him with information that is nothing short of golden.
The e-mails have a masculine tone, but he suspects that such inside stuff can only come straight from police dispatch, and since everyone holding that particular job is female, it’s Poe’s guess that the tone and the screen name, Duke, are pure misdirection. But that’s fine with him. Otis Poe would never betray a source, no matter what Jackie Burke seems to think.
Anyway, he has a lot of investigating and a lot more writing ahead of him. And then, if all his hard work pays off, maybe his girlfriend will forgive him, decide he’s not so bad, despite his obsessions. Maybe she won’t move out. Maybe he can even persuade her to accept that ring.
SEVENTY-ONE
Two Days Later
Reeve LeClaire ignores her mid-morning cup of hot chocolate, studying Otis Poe’s long, front-page article in the The Jefferson Express. “It’s all so bizarre,” she says, massaging her temples, “it makes my head hurt.”
Dr. Ezra Lerner reaches over and absently pats her shoulder while reading the news on his cell phone.
She and Dr. Lerner have retreated to a quiet corner of the hotel lobby, away from other guests, well out of earshot from the lounge’s blaring television. They have checked out of their rooms and have their luggage packed and ready. Every couple of minutes, one or the other finds a startling bit of information and makes a comment.
“Look at this,” Reeve says, pointing at the article. “Can you believe it? They found a rifle in his closet, the same one used to kill Vanderholt.”
“Is that right?” Dr. Lerner glances at her newspaper and continues scrolling on his phone. In a moment, he says, “Oh, here it is. And they found another weapon. The pistol that he killed himself with, apparently the same one used to kill the other two kidnappers, J.J. Orr and Simon Pelt.”
“A cop.” Reeve shakes her head. “And he almost got away with it.” She takes a sip from her cup and muses aloud, “I still don’t know how they finally found him. What gave him away?”
Dr. Lerner raises a finger, asking her to wait, then looks up and says, “There’s a reference here to surveillance. Could be cell phone records, GPS. They’ve got all sorts of ways of tracking people these days.”
“He was smart, wasn’t he? In a creepy, diabolical way, I mean. Pairing up with ex-cons who were pedophiles, but still weren’t registered sex offenders.”
“Diabolical is the word. He thought of everything. Hyperorganized.”
“And hypersadistic.”
“The odd thing about him,” Dr. Lerner says, setting his phone aside, “is that a narcissist of this type wouldn’t usually opt for suicide. It just doesn’t seem to fit.”
Reeve gives an exaggerated shiver, as if trying to shake off the whole experience. “I keep thinking about those girls. Being kidnapped, raped, and held captive is bad enough. But to have two abusers? That’s off the charts.”
He gives a grunt of disgust. “It is hard to comprehend. The ex-cons apparently had everyday control. Food and water, basic survival. But as despicable as their primary captors were—”
“At least they weren’t as bad as that scumbag cop, right? Not just a power freak, but also a hardcore sadist.”
“Such incredible cruelty, so many layers of trauma.” He shakes his head and continues reading. After a moment, he looks up at her. “I’m surprised to see your name here.”
She makes a face. “Poe and I made a deal. Interview me, using my old name, and leave the girls alone.”
“Détente?”
She sits back. “What do you mean?”
“Between you and the press.”
“More like a brief thaw in the Cold War.”
Dr. Lerner cocks his head, gives her an appraising look. “Do you realize how much you’ve changed while we’ve been here?”
“Can you believe it’s only been a couple of weeks? Man, I’m exhausted.”
“I’m serious. You’ve made real progress.”
“I guess.” After a beat, she leans toward him and adds in a conspiratorial tone, “Hey, now that I think about it, I even did my homework, didn’t I?”
His forehead knits in confusion. He looks tired
, and she realizes that he has been working nonstop, talking with law enforcement, consulting with the girls’ families, making arrangements for his next trips, while also juggling the demands of both his clinical practice and his professorial responsibilities in San Francisco. Plus, the ongoing problems with his son.
“Let’s see,” he says, rubbing his bloodshot eyes. “During our last session, right?”
“Remember the assignment?” she prods. “I actually succeeded in making an intimate connection with another human being.”
“Ah. Yes, you certainly did.”
“But who would have guessed that I’d be bonding over scars with another survivor, eh?” She gives him a quick, dimpled smile.
“You did a remarkable job with Tilly, far beyond what anyone expected,” he says, tapping his chin. “But while I understand the ethics of protecting shared confidences, I may never completely forgive you for hiding things from me.”
She rolls her eyes. “I’ve been thoroughly admonished for that. Jackie Burke called again and practically skinned me alive over the phone. That woman’s a terror.”
Dr. Lerner casts a look toward the door. “She and Hudson should be here any minute. Anyway,” he continues, turning back to her, “before they get here, I wanted to discuss two things with you.”
“Shoot.”
“First, about Flint’s hearing: I wanted to apologize for not having been better prepared.”
“What? That’s not your fault. Terrance Moody blindsided you.”
“He did, but I should have guessed he was up to something, especially after his appearance on 60 Minutes.”
“Dr. Ick likes the limelight. It’s not your fault that the hearing didn’t go well.”
“But I let you down. And when the judge’s decision is completely discretionary—”
“Now just stop it,” she interrupts. “How could anyone guess what Moody was up to? Or that he would bring Daryl Wayne Flint’s mother along to the hearing? I mean, what a drama.”
“True, Dr. Moody has never staged anything so elaborate for an annual review before. He probably went to work months ago with this plan to influence the hospital’s recommendations to the court.” He sighs, shaking his head. “But still, if I’d paid closer attention, I could have presaged that—”
“Come on, nobody can presage Moody. He’s as freaky as Flint is.”
“But clearly, he had his whole strategy planned out. I should have anticipated this.”
Reeve exhales loudly. “So Flint’s mother wanted to get her poor demented son’s security status reduced. And she did. End of story.”
“Still, I feel I’ve let you down. Especially with Flint calling you.”
“That phone call wasn’t your fault.”
“But it should never have been permitted. It’s a violation that—”
“Even with a lowered security status, it’s not like they’re going to let Flint just stroll away, is it?” She puts up her palms. “Enough about that, okay? You said you had two things to discuss. What else?”
He takes a moment, changes his tone. “I wanted to suggest that you think about applying for classes next semester.”
Her nose wrinkles.
“Don’t look so sour. Just think about it, okay? You have a special aptitude for this. And I think we can both acknowledge that you have some choices to make about your future.”
“Choices about…”
“About how you want to continue.”
She raises her eyebrows.
“Don’t look so surprised. You’ve clearly begun a transition. And you already understand more about captivity syndromes than my best graduate students. Better than some PhDs, in fact. I know you’ve been reading the journals, some of the literature, but I want you to dedicate yourself to actual study. Do some analysis. Write some papers. Develop your natural insight.”
Reeve looks at him for a long moment, unblinking.
“Will you at least consider it?”
She gives a noncommittal twitch of her shoulders. At that instant, her cell phone rings. She checks the display, says, “It’s Tilly,” and gets up from the table. Walking away with the phone to her ear, she asks, “Hey, are you on your way to Fresno?”
“Nope. Our trip’s postponed till tomorrow,” Tilly says. “Are you still in town?”
“Just about to leave.”
“Well, I wanted to ask if you could come by. For lunch, maybe? Could you?”
“It’s hard to pass up your mother’s cooking, but are you sure she won’t mind?”
“The thing is, I’m making something for you.”
“For me?”
“Well, I mean it’s nothing, really. Just a small gift. But it’s your colors, I think.”
Reeve flashes on Tilly’s lurid version of The Scream, wondering what colors the girl imagines would suit her.
Shades of black, perhaps.
She’s says good-bye and is about to pocket her phone when, all at once, she aches to get back to San Francisco. She misses her dad. She misses the Bay. She misses Persie. Acting on impulse, she calls Anthony’s place.
He answers on the first ring, and she barely has time to say hello before he starts talking nonstop: “Reeve! Hey! Where the heck have you been? Persie is begging for your company. She says the crickets I give her aren’t half as tasty, which makes no sense at all, since they’re from the same exact supplier.”
She laughs.
“You better come get her quick, ’cause I’ve had a dozen customers offering sacks of gold for her. They’re not bothering her, or anything,” he adds quickly. “I’ve got her in the corner, just like you wanted. But, hey, I think you owe me a beer for keeping her safe and warm, right? Are you back in town? When can you come by?”
“Anthony, whoa, slow down. Persephone is very sensitive, you know. The vibrations from all that chatter will freak her out.”
“Ha! I’m the one that told you how sensitive she is. You kept saying she was covered with fur, remember?”
* * *
When Reeve returns to the hotel lobby, she is sobered to find Jackie Burke and Nick Hudson conferring with Dr. Lerner. She hasn’t spoken to Hudson since he snatched Emily Ewing’s list away from her and told her to back off. She still feels a bit raw, especially after having ignored his advice and ending up smack in the middle of exactly what he’d warned her against. She tenses, preparing for some kind of rebuke.
Instead, he clasps both her hands in his, holding them warmly. “Here she is, the mighty avenger.”
She blushes, trying to think of an appropriate response, feeling self-conscious. When he drops her hands and the conversation resumes around them, she is only half-listening.
After what seems only seconds, she is pulling her luggage behind her as they all exit the warm building into the gusting winter air. The good-byes and thanks blow past her, she waves over her shoulder and heads toward her Jeep.
As she is loading her luggage, Nick Hudson hurries over. “I wanted to give you something before you take off,” he says, handing her a brightly patterned CD.
“What’s this?”
“Just some tunes for your trip.”
“Texas Hold ’em?” she says, studying the CD in her hand.
“Yeah, my band. You like country music?”
“Uh, sure. You’re in a band?”
He gives a shrug. “Hope you like the lyrics. I wrote a couple songs myself.”
She tries to think of something clever to say, but barely manages to stammer her thanks, adding, “Well, I hope they’re fun songs, good driving music.”
He looks at her, shakes his head. “A man has a right to be sad.” Then he touches her cheek and says the last thing she would have expected, “Why do the pretty ones always have to leave?”
SEVENTY-TWO
After feasting on homemade lasagna and hot sourdough bread, Tilly pulls Reeve into her bedroom and shyly offers her a small square box wrapped in blue foil.
“Open it.”
“Gee
, this is my day for gifts,” Reeve says, with a stab of regret at having nothing to give in return. She removes the wrapping, opens the box, unfolds the pale blue tissue paper, and lifts out a beautiful necklace made of shining beads, some as small as BBs, some as big as grapes.
“Do you like it?”
“Wow, it’s gorgeous.” Reeve holds up the necklace of amber, gold, white, and glittering crystal. “You really made this?”
A small shrug and a shy smile. “Put it on.”
Reeve holds it to her chest as Tilly secures the clasp at the back of her neck, and they both turn toward the mirror. The beads sparkle and glow with inner fire.
“It looks great on you.”
“Thank you so much. You really think these are my colors?”
Tilly beams at her. “Because you’re the light. LeClaire means light, doesn’t it? That’s you.”
* * *
Dark clouds are blowing in by the time Reeve has refueled the Jeep and is speeding south on Interstate 5. She eases her foot off the accelerator and lets the cruise control lock in at seventy-five mph. It will be late by the time she gets home. Too late to pick up Persie, too late to return the Jeep to her father. Tomorrow will have to be soon enough.
The unincorporated edges of Jefferson straggle out and disappear behind her, giving way to rolling hills and undulating pastureland. Cows. Horses. Distant mountaintops chewed off by angry clouds. The sky starts to spit and she adjusts her windshield wipers, trying to find the right setting.
She feels hundreds of miles away and far outside her old life. A new year is right around the corner. She’ll return to a city she loves during a season when the palms are laced with holiday lights. She resolves to be kinder, more outgoing. She’ll show her family that she can be a warmer person, the kind that doesn’t flinch away from hugs. She will accept invitations and wear clothes other than jeans. She will try to be more normal.
And then what? College again? The idea sparks little enthusiasm, but maybe it’s smart to consider the advice of people she knows and trusts for a change.
