Old enough to realize what was happening.
Old enough to fear the worst.
As time passed she managed to control her emotions. She knew the van would stop at some stage and the doors would open. She knew that would be her only chance. She sat and waited, fighting back the tears. Only girls cry, she told herself. She was tougher than that.
Eventually the vibrations eased. The engine was off. She took deep breaths in the eerie silence, preparing herself, hoping she was facing the doors. She had no way of being sure. Not a chink of light broke the terrifying darkness of the van, only the motion of the vehicle giving her any sense of direction.
Her plan was a simple one. Her only one. To throw the bike at the man as he opened the door. And then to run. Just run. And run. And run.
For a while nothing happened. Unbeknown to her he was enjoying a cigar. He liked a cigar before and after. It seemed like an eternity before anything happened. Then the van rocked slightly. An acute mind reasoned he was getting out of the drivers’ cabin. A minute passed. She stared straight ahead, trembling fingers clutching the bike frame in readiness.
A chink of light. She psyched herself, flexing her muscles. Waiting.
The door opened a fraction. What was he doing? She waited.
As the doors widened and daylight flooded in she saw something from the corner of her eye.
It was a reflex action to turn and look.
The bike fell from her hands, her body paralyzed with fear as she saw Lara's partially clothed body hanging from the wall of the van adjacent to her, hands strapped above her, the weight of her body digging thongs into wrists that had long since ceased to bleed.
He pulled the door closed behind him as he climbed in.
39
Randall lit his third cigarette as Reynolds droned.
“Let's come back to your childhood. It's not at all clear to me yet. Are you quite sure you don't remember any unpleasant experiences as a child? These fantasies... Being tied to a tree with your pants around your ankles? Exposing yourself to school friends in the playground? At elementary school? They're not the fantasies of normal childhood, Greg, let's be fair. They must reflect something that was happening to you at the time. It's a well established fact that men who are attracted to children were themselves abused in childhood.”
“My father did not abuse me, Dr Reynolds.”
“Then your father was a very unusual man. All men abuse, Greg. It's in their nature to.”
Randall shook his head, unwilling even to entertain the suggestion. “No.”
“I'm not saying he hurt you. Caused you harm. Abuse can take many different forms. But he must have bathed you as a child, surely? It might have happened then, without you even realizing it. Think about it. It's possible, Greg, isn't it Did you bathe together? Did he wash your genitals? Your behind?”
Randall was shaking his head violently. “No.”
Reynolds ignored him. “Sometimes the abuse stops when the child is quite young. It makes it more difficult to remember in later years. Or maybe it was something more serious. Sometimes we shut off unpleasant events as a child. We can suppress them so completely that it's as if they never happened. We have no conscious memory of them, but then the angst manifests itself in later years, comes back to haunt our adult lives. As with this attraction to children for example.”
“No. that's not what happened.” Randall was adamant. Since his father had died he had only fond memories. The harsh discipline was forgotten. Whatever his faults, his father was not an abuser.
Reynolds was intense. She might have been reading his mind. “The memory can play strange tricks, Greg. It can suppress memories. Lock them deep into your subconscious. Have you ever heard of Recovered Memory Syndrome? It's where we use therapy to regress your memory back to childhood, to find out what really happened. I guarantee you anyone who tries it will remember the abuse they suffered. I did, Greg. I only learned the truth years later, through recovered memory, but I was abused by my father as a child. And his brother. My uncle. I just never realized what was happening at the time. Or if I did, I shut it out so completely it was as if it never happened.”
“My father was not an abuser, Dr Reynolds. If that’s what you think then perhaps I should go now.” He shifted in his seat, as if to get up.
Reynolds' tone changed in an instant. “No, no, if you feel uncomfortable we can try a different approach. How about a drink?”
Randall gestured to the half-empty cup.
“I meant something a little stronger.” She was making her way to a drinks cabinet. “It will help you relax. Doctor's orders.” The smile. “ Whisky, brandy, vodka... Or a beer? We have some cans in the chiller.”
“Please.” A cold beer would compliment his last cigarette. God how he wished he'd bought a second packet.
With an ice-cold Budweiser in his hand Randall felt a little more sure of himself. He noticed that Reynolds joined him with a vodka and tonic.
“I don't usually drink in the day,” she assured him, “but I need to relate to your state of mind, the better to understand your anxieties and assess your needs.”
He eased himself back into the chair and listened to Reynolds as she harped on about psychotherapy, how it could help, and how important it was that he should be honest with her about his desires.
Then suddenly she was back with the questions.
She'd gauged correctly, the alcohol and the relaxed atmosphere combining to make her client more cooperative.
40
“Did you have any homosexual experiences while you were growing up?”
“I'm not gay, Dr Reynolds.”
“Homosexual interaction between pubescent boys is an entirely natural part of male development.”
He'd heard that before. That every boy had a homosexual experience, and that if they denied it they were liars. It was a no-win situation. Damned if you did, damned if you didn't. He'd never given it any serious thought before. Now he had a vague recollection. With two other boys. The memories were flooding back. On the way home from school, under the bridge. He shut his eyes, trying to shut out the memory. “No, nothing like that ever happened.”
“It doesn't mean you’re gay, Greg. Every child goes through it.”
“Did you?”
“It's not the same for girls. I'm quite happy to talk about me, about my experiences, if it will make you feel better, but that's not why you came here, is it.”
She searched his eyes. “Tell me, why did you get married, Greg?”
“I'm sorry?”
“Married. Why did you bother? Was it a cover? An attempt to deny your true desires? To keep them a secret?”
“No... we ...we fell in love.” He managed a sheepish grin. “Sounds corny, I know, but it's true.”
“And how old was... Elizabeth, isn't it? How old was Elizabeth when you married her?”
“Twenty-three.”
“And when you met her?”
“Twenty-one.”
“So you never knew her as a child?”
“No. Is this relevant?”
“I'm the therapist here, Greg, please. There's no need to be so defensive. You obviously have sex. Or at least, have had in the past. You are the father of your children, I presume?”
“Of course.” It had never occurred to him otherwise and he resented the implications.
“How would you rate your sex life? On a scale of one to ten?”
Randall shifted uncomfortably. “I've never thought about it like that.”
“Oh come on, Greg. All men think like that. It's in their nature to. Is she good? Does she satisfy you? Or doesn't it happen anymore? Is it a thing of the past? Is that why you turn to little girls for gratification instead, because your wife doesn't satisfy you?”
“No. No, we still do it. A lot. Regularly. I love Elizabeth very much. She and the Twins mean everything to me. We, Elizabeth and I, have a very active sex life.”
Reynolds looked unconvinced. “How did you
feel when the children were born?”
“Over the moon. I adore them.”
“You wanted girls, of course. Most men prefer their first born to be boys. So they can bring up little versions of themselves and delude themselves that their son will become the famous football star or successful businessman they never achieved themselves. But you, you were delighted to have girls, weren't you, Greg? You would have been disappointed if they'd been boys. That's the truth, isn't it?”
“No. They just happened to be girls. We found out very early on what sex they were. We call them the Dynamite Twins now, but - “
Reynolds cut across him. “I can guess exactly why you call them that. Let's not change the subject, Greg. They were girls. That's what was important to you, wasn't it? You were thinking, even then, about yourself, weren't you. About having little girls in your own home, beholden to you. Available at your whim, to satisfy your needs.”
“No.” He felt he should object more strongly, but the alcohol was in his blood, easing the tension. He popped a second can. Let her say what she liked.
“She's small, your wife, isn't she, Greg? Slightly built, I mean. Small breasts? Youthful appearance? Like a Barbie doll?”
He nodded, bewildered. “How did you..?”
“She shaves her pubic hair, doesn't she? You asked her to, isn't that right, Greg?”
Randall's mouth dropped open.
“Going Brazilian. Isn’t that what they call it? Do you fantasize about being with younger girls when you have sex with your wife, Greg, is that it? Which do you prefer, her breasts or her genitals?”
He shook his head in disbelief.
“Her genitals, isn't it? Do you practice cunnilingus? Oral sex? Is that your favorite part? Is the real sex, the intercourse, just for show? A pleasure for her, but just a mechanical release for you? When you go down on Elizabeth you're imagining she's just a child. That's your fantasy, isn't it? You can be honest with me. Nothing you say will ever leave this room.”
41
Reynolds looked deep into his eyes.
“What is it exactly that you find appealing about children, Greg? About little girls?”
A long silence, while he emptied the can and opened another. “I can't explain it. All I know is I find them attractive.”
“By attractive, you mean physically attractive?”
“Yes.”
“Sexually attractive?”
“Obviously. That's why I'm here. But I've never touched them, believe me. Not ever.”
“But you'd like to.”
He slugged back the Budweiser. Reynolds topped up her vodka in a sympathy move.
“It's just about looking. Fantasizing. Not the real thing.”
Reynolds was nodding eagerly. “Which age group attracts you, Greg? Is it younger or older girls that arouse you?”
The alcohol in his blood, he was responding almost without embarrassment. “Younger. Not babies. But not too old. Once they start to develop, sexually I mean, I seem to find them less appealing. They're still attractive. So are adult women. But it's the younger ones I'm drawn to. Say eight, nine. That sort of age.”
“So puberty is a turn-off?”
“I hadn't thought of it like that, but yes, I guess so. Is that... Is that normal?”
“Well, normal would be an inappropriate word, but it's by no means uncommon. You must realize, Greg, that there are thousands of men out there dealing with similar problems. You're not alone in this.”
“That's hard to believe.”
“Maybe, but it's true. It's just not the kind of thing you can discuss with your buddies down at the bar. It's a very difficult subject.”
“Don’t I know it.”
“You're obviously aware of the legal position, Greg, but let's talk hypothetically for a moment. Supposing sex with children was legalized. Just supposing it was socially acceptable. Supposing you wouldn't be arrested and you wouldn't be ostracized by your friends and family if they knew. Would you want to go to bed with a child? With an eight or a nine year old? For sex?”
42
Randall stared ahead nervously. He'd said too much already.
He thought of the Dynamite Twins.
Precious Natalie and Tamara.
He slugged back half the can.
“No.”
“No?”
“I've got two daughters. You know that. I bath them sometimes.” He stared into the distance. “I can see, literally, how delicate a child's body is. How frail. It's unthinkable.”
Reynolds looked unconvinced.
“I'm attracted to children. I admit it. I like them. They're a turn on, so help me God. But the last thing I would want to do is to hurt them in any way.”
“But you do think about it. That's why you're here, after all.”
“No!” He controlled his voice. “I mean... I see young girls in the street or in the park and I find myself staring at them. I want to be with them.”
“And you find that sexually stimulating? Just to watch?”
“To watch, yes. I don't want to touch them. To harm them. But as time goes by the urges becomes stronger. A few years ago I just fantasized about their appearance. Then their physical presence. About being with them. That's what worries me. Not my fantasizing. That's just me. But supposing... Supposing the urge gets out of control one day? Supposing I go too far. That I actually touch one of them.”
He was sweating, on the edge of his seat, aware that he'd revealed his innermost desires to someone else. Someone he'd known less than an hour.
He felt embarrassed.
Insecure.
Frightened.
Reynolds said nothing for a full minute, watching him intently, noting his hand movements, his body positions, the emphasis he placed on different words. She was considering whether to bring the session to a halt here. She decided to try one more line of questioning before making a decision.
“Tell me about Natalie and Tamara? Your daughters. What are they like?”
His face broke into a smile. “Just two beautiful little girls. I wouldn't harm them, Dr Reynolds. Not them. Not ever.”
“It's Ruth, Greg, please. And I believe you. But you've watched them grow up. From little babies, to toddlers, to young children. You say you bathe them. Why doesn't your wife do that?”
“She works nights. Shifts. It's more practical for me to bath them some nights.”
“Do you watch them in the bath?”
“Of course. They're only six.”
“I meant look at them, like you do with other little girls.”
“No. They're my daughters. I don't see them that way. They're different. They're not like any other girls.”
“But they're still little girls, Greg. Six years old now. But in a few years time they'll be eight. Or nine. Your favorite age group. Do you think about that sometimes? Do you worry you might lose control one day and do something?”
“No.”
“This is strictly confidential, Greg, remember that. You can be totally honest with me.”
He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I think it's time I was going, Dr Reynolds. I think it would be best.”
“Of course, Greg. That's entirely up to you.” She knocked back her vodka. “But let me ask you just one more question before you go. Just one. It will help my appraisal for Dr Quinlan enormously.”
Randall waited, on the edge of his seat.
“Please answer this question frankly, Greg. Honesty is of the utmost importance. Have you ever, even once, however innocent or insignificant it may have seemed to you at the time, touched your daughters? Their breasts? Their genitals. In a sexual way, I mean?”
The half-empty can slipped from his hands as she finished the question, sending him to his feet with a beer stained crotch. Amid apologies and the mopping up operation the interview was thankfully terminated.
As the cab departed Reynolds returned to the lounge and crossed to a mirrored wall cabinet. She opened the door and switched off the camcor
der.
43
“You wanted to see me, Sir?”
Captain John Weisman gestured for Pitman to close the door. “Take a seat, David. Drink?”
“No thanks, Sir. Never touch the stuff.”
“Of course, I was forgetting.”
“Something on your mind, Sir?”
Weisman poured himself a Glenmorangie and stood by the window, looking out across the station car park, his lips pursed.
He turned and faced Pitman. “You've heard the rumors, of course.”
“Sir?”
“The Long Island kid. The boy in Binghamton. Now the two girls east of the Hudson.”
“It happens, Sir. Kids go missing all the time. Most of them turn up. It’s the rare few that don’t that make the headlines…”
Weisman put his empty glass down. “Cut the bull, David. Please speak freely. Is Bristow our man, or isn't he?”
“No, Sir. I don't believe he is.”
Weisman bit his bottom lip in concentration. “That's not what I wanted to hear.”
“Sorry, but it’s just not his style. I've said that all along.”
“The press are playing merry hell with me at the moment, David, I don't mind telling you. That lawyer of Bristow's. Isaac, is it? He's not helping matters. He's talking about formal proceedings for assault. I mean, the sick bastard's not even out of hospital yet, for Christ's sake, and they’re demanding heads roll.”
Pitman shrugged. “It's understandable, Sir. Bristow was in a pretty bad way. The coincidences were lining up thick and fast. They just happen to find him slumped in his vehicle, the fingers broken on one hand, a shattered elbow... And a signed confession, in his pocket? Get real!”
Weisman looked genuinely surprised. “Call me naive, David, but I thought we’d progressed at least a little these past forty years.”
“Sir?”
“Planted confessions? Kangaroo courts in police cells? I know my history, David, but this is twenty-first century New York, not nineteen-fifties Mississippi. You can't be serious, surely.”
Sugar & Spice (US edition) Page 8
