by Dan Taylor
Annabelle didn’t want to seem too keen, so she made up some story about visiting friends one weekend. That was last weekend. And it would be good if they could meet up and talk about old times. The guy said he was planning on having a party that weekend, and that it would be cool if she could come. She didn’t know about that, because college provided all the partying she needed. She says, “I didn’t want to make the effort to travel all that way to be some fifth wheel at a party. Standing in a corner. Him off talking to buddies while I wondered what the hell I was doing there. There isn’t any romance at a party, as goofy as that sounds. Plus, I said I was visiting friends, and he might think it strange that I didn’t bring any with me. I didn’t want to travel all that way for that.”
The guy must’ve sensed her hesitance. At least I think so, as Annabelle says he had a sudden change of plans when she didn’t get back to him about the party. Annabelle goes on and says, “He said there wasn’t going to be a party anymore.”
I couldn’t help but think there hadn’t been a party in the first place. He’d just said that because he thought it would make Annabelle feel more comfortable about traveling all that way to see a guy, if she felt she wasn’t his sole plan for his social life that weekend. That plan nearly backfired on him. And if he hadn’t changed his plan, Annabelle probably wouldn’t be sitting in my rental right now, biting her fingernails as she mustered up the courage to tell the rest of her story.
“I planned on staying in a motel out of town. I figured if we didn’t get on as well as I hoped, I could stay the night in the motel room and travel back to college the next day. The guy was really nice at first. Too nice, now that I think about it. It sounds stupid, but during that Saturday, as we caught up, discussing people we knew and what had happened to them since high school, I thought I’d met a guy I could really get on with. The guys at college are great and everything, but I don’t trust them. They’re too smart and manipulative. Couple girlfriends from my dorm have been burned by guys they thought were sincere. This guy from my hometown was different. There were no airs about him. He was simple, and I liked that about him. He wasn’t trying to be someone that he wasn’t.
“Anyway, even though I’d gotten to like him, I still planned on staying in the motel room that night. I’d paid already, and I know better than to go and sleep with a guy after he’s made me laugh a few times and gained my trust. In my experience, a guy that can sleep with a girl too easily develops no respect for her, even if it turns out they stay together and eventually get married. I liked him too much for that to happen. So I told him no, I wasn’t interested in staying at his apartment that night. He took it really well, and didn’t try to convince me that he had only planned on us talking and catching up more. He even joked, ‘Well, I had hoped on getting lucky tonight. Not with just anyone, as I’m not that kinda guy. But with you, with how it’s been going, corresponding with you on…listen to me. What do I sound like?’ See what I mean. No airs. I’d never heard a guy be that honest before. If I had a dollar for every time some guy said he wanted me to go back to his apartment so that we could just talk, ‘or just cuddle in bed. No funny stuff. I promise.’ Well, I guess I’d still be in college, as I want a career to be someone, not just for money. But let’s just say that if I had a dollar for every time some guy has told me that line, then my parents would have a much easier time paying my tuition.
“The night was winding down, and we’d gotten to kissing. He wasn’t forceful, in fact, and I hope I don’t embarrass you, but I was the one who had to put his hands on me. He didn’t feel right about it. But what’s second base, you know? Just over-the-bra stuff. I’m not a whore. He starts getting real excited, but then backs off, says he doesn’t feel right about it. We should move slower. He didn’t want me to think he was that type of guy. I said I didn’t anyway, but if he felt bad about it, then we could leave it for another time. We kissed good night again, and he told me stuff that freaked me out a bit. That he loved me, stuff that seemed way too fast. What could I say?”
I wait for her to continue, but she doesn’t, just sits there silently. It becomes clear after a second or two that it isn’t a rhetorical question.
I say, “So the guy got too heavy, too fast, said he loved you and you want me to answer how you could have replied?”
“Yep.”
I get the feeling that the story gets messy after this point, and that Annabelle’s identified this moment as a crucial part in the evening that led to his actions.
“What did you say?” I ask.
“I said thanks.”
“That’s as good a reply as any.”
She must’ve sensed my disingenuousness, as she puts her hands on her face and starts crying again. Jesus, Hancock, way to go with the sensitivity.
I put an arm around her. “Look, he put you in a difficult situation, by saying all the wrong things. It’s not your fault he felt rejected.”
“Are you sure?” she says, in between sobs.
“As sure as shit on the end of a teenager’s stick.”
She continues crying a second, then asks, “How sure’s that?”
“More than damn sure. It supercedes all other grades of surety.”
She takes her hands away from her face and sniffles. “Should I continue?”
“Do you want to?”
“No, but I have to tell someone. I’d rather it be a stranger than my parents or my roommate. Do you mind?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I am.”
“As sure as shit on the end of a teenager’s stick?”
“Just as a heads up, I’m not sure that’s really a thing. I just heard some guy say it once. You might get funny looks if you carry on saying that. But I am sure about wanting to hear the rest of the story.”
“Ok.”
So the mechanic guy, Mr. Put A Ring On Your Finger Before He’s Reached Second Base Proper, acts cool at first. Even says to her, “You’re welcome.” It’s as good a response as any. Guy acts cool about it right up until the point he says he’s going to walk back to his place, and that she can go grab a cab from the taxi rank. She says, “Then boom! As soon as I turned around. Something real hard and not blunt, a little sharp, hit the back of my head. I thought I’d been shot. I didn’t hear a bang, but still. I have never felt pain like it before. I felt instantly nauseous, but I didn’t have time to spit up, because whatever it was hit me again. Even harder than before. Next thing I knew I woke up in some barn. I suspected it was one because I remembered the smell from a time I snuck in one as a teenager. I couldn’t see anything when I tried looking around at first, but I got the impression I was in a real big room. When I looked up, I saw moonlight shining through a crack in the ceiling, and that ceiling was real high up. The only places I know with ceilings that high are barns. Plus, the smell of hay, you know.
“I had a bad headache, and I wasn’t chained or anything, at least at first, but I couldn’t get up. I felt groggy. Not hungover-groggy. Some other feeling entirely. I tried to speak but his hand came out of nowhere. Covered my mouth. I hadn’t even known he was next to me I was so out of it. He shushed me quiet. I just wanted to ask him why he’d hit me. I wasn’t going to scream. But he wasn’t having any of it. I thought he was trying to suffocate me, because he was pressing so hard—if not for, you know, not putting his hand over my nose. Then he raped me.”
There was no emotional buildup to what she said last, and I wasn’t prepared for that. Especially how nonchalantly she said it. I guess she’s done all the crying she can do for today.
“Aren’t you going to say anything?” she asks.
“I don’t really know what to say.”
“Don’t tell me you’re sorry, because you didn’t do it.”
“I was thinking of saying that. I am sorry. I’m sorry it happened to you.”
She looks at me funny. “But you don’t even know me.”
“True. But I’m sorry that you got sexually as
saulted. Really sorry. Whenever someone gets sexually assaulted I feel sorry that it happened to them.”
“People get raped every day. I bet you weren’t crying when you were driving along before you saw me, for all the other women out there. You’re sorry because I’m sitting next to you in your car, and you’ve gotten to know me a little. And that made it real for you.”
She has me stumped, but there’s something else on my mind besides Annabelle’s lesson on empathy.
The timeline.
I say, “But Annabelle, that was last Saturday. And now it’s a week later. What happened between then and now?”
“Oh, I got raped every day until he let me go. I thought that was obvious.”
13.
ANNABELLE WAS RIGHT in her brief assessment of me, from when we were introducing ourselves: I do say all the wrong things. And while Annabelle’s sitting in my car, having just told me about the worst thing that will probably ever happen to her, I’m thinking about what an idiot I am. And then subsequently about how narcissistic I am. Which doubles the narcissism. Now I’ve got a whole load of meta-narcissism going on. I make a mental note of that to tell my shrink. I wonder if she’ll think me clever for that “meta-narcissism” bit. That was quite good.
As though reading my thoughts for a second time, Annabelle says, “Don’t worry. I don’t think you’re a complete idiot for asking that last question.”
“But you think I’m a little bit of an idiot, right…you know what? Forget I asked that. This isn’t about me. Forget I’m even here.”
She looks at me strangely. I have no idea why.
Then I cotton on. Say, “I meant I’m here for you. Feeling your pain. Believe me. I’m pissed at this guy.”
Of course I am. But I don’t do anger well. Annabelle looks unconvinced.
Then she says, “Sympathy’s all I expect from a complete stranger, Jake. I think empathy might be a little bit beyond you. At least in this situation.”
I resist asking Annabelle if she’s a psychology major, and take my lumps with my pride turned all the way down.
What Annabelle says comes right out of the blue. “So, are you going to help me, like you promised?”
I don’t remember promising anything, but now’s not the time to be pedantic.
“I’ll help you.”
“Great.” She smiles. “So what are you going to do to the guy?”
“Now slow down, Annabelle. Vigilantism outside of being administered by a grown man wearing a bat suit is kinda frowned upon. And even he doesn’t get carte blanche.”
Her smile fades.
I continue, “Plus, it’s not really the sort of gig I’m made for. Look at me.”
She does. “I admit, you don’t look the knight-in-shining-armor type, but you must have at least a little spunk in you.”
I lied. I’ve practiced vigilantism before. I hit a guy with a giant dildo who kidnapped my sister and nephew. Knocked him unconscious. That’s spunk and a half. My nephew was real proud of his Uncle Jake. But there must be a better solution than me running around Annabelle’s hometown, dildo in hand, looking for some cold-clocking, slept-through-Dating-101 rapist-mechanic. Now that sounds like a superhero movie.
Jokes aside, this guy needs to be behind bars, not nursing a blow to the head from a dildo even Mr. Hands might feel intimidated by.
I say, “Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to teach this guy a lesson about how he should treat a lady. And a lady who’s so pragmatic about the level of empathy she expects from strangers to boot. But we should go to the cops, Annabelle.”
“I didn’t have you pegged as a spoilsport, Jake. Not after you rescued me from the side of the road.”
“I’m not being a spoilsport. We go to the cops, and we do this the proper way. If that fails, then I’ll start warming up my dildo arm.”
I could’ve thought of a better metaphor than that, especially when considering I haven’t given Annabelle context.
Annabelle doesn’t comment on that, just looks at me strangely. Then she says, “Nah. I tried that already. The sheriff of Hickston County wouldn’t have any of it. Said I was making it all up after the guy rejected me.”
“Sheriff of where now?”
Annabelle raises an eyebrow. “Hickston. What about it?”
“And where in Hickston County was this offense committed?”
“Jake, why are you asking these questions in a really high-pitched voice?”
“Nothing. Just interested.” I try to act casual before asking, “Where?”
“Why Hickston Town, of course.”
I think about the timeframe, and my case.
Then I ask, “What’s the name of this mechanic guy?”
“Bradley. Bradley Hoverbrooke. Why?”
14.
I KNOW WHAT you’re thinking. This is Megan’s boyfriend, and Old Hancock’s the luckiest guy alive. But this isn’t a movie script written by some stoned creative writing major. I’ll admit I am a little lucky. It’s the same town I’m heading to. But unless this guy is using some sort of alias while he targets his rape victims—highly unlikely, given that Annabelle knows the guy from high school and Megan doesn’t seem the type to date a hick car mechanic who indulges in week-long raping sessions—I’ve just gotten myself two cases to investigate this weekend. Number one, find out what Megan’s boyfriend Julius Collingwood was doing in Hickston last weekend. And number two, find out why the sheriff of Hickston didn’t investigate the rape of Annabelle English, suspected psychology major. I suppose the biggest mystery for you so far is why I didn’t laugh my ass off upon hearing the name of Megan’s new boyfriend. Truth is, I did. I’ve got the bruises to prove it. I just failed to mention it.
Oh, and a third gig, dish out vigilante justice if I can’t persuade the sheriff of Hickston this case requires his attention.
Annabelle interrupts my thoughts: “What is it? Do you know the guy?”
“Never heard of him. But it turns out that’s the exact town I’m heading to.”
“Hickston?”
“Yeah. I’ve kinda got an investigation already going on there.”
“Oh.” She pauses. “So, are you going to help me get my revenge?”
“I’m going to do better than that.” I start the car.
“What’s that?”
I put it in drive. Then say, “I’m going to find out why this sheriff turned a blind eye to you getting raped.”
As we drive off, Annabelle says, “Explain to me how that’s better than the vigilante justice thing.”
15.
IN THE NEXT couple minutes, I explain to Annabelle that her sexual assault may have uncovered a larger issue: that of law enforcement corruption in a small town. Who knows how many rapes have gone “unnoticed” in Hickston. And what other crimes are ignored, as long as they don’t fit the sheriff’s personal bias or political agenda? I might’ve hit on something big. True crime big.
“I think you’re making too much of this sheriff thing,” Annabelle says.
“How so?”
“There are a number of details I think may have influenced the sheriff’s opinion.”
“Like what?”
“We went out on a date, for one. People saw us together.”
“Two words: date rape. What’s the next one?”
“I don’t have a scratch on me, apart from the head wound, which had pretty much healed by the time I went to see the sheriff. The son of a bitch raped me, but he was gentle while he did. I mean, he held me in place, but he didn’t slap me around or anything.”
I glance at her, looking at her unmarked arms and shoulders. “Okay, I can see why that might be a problem. So his crime was more sexually motivated, as opposed to being born of some deep-seated hatred towards women in general. But he still engaged in sexual activity with you against your will. What’s the next one?”
“I was kinda out of it. I must have looked like shit.” She thinks a second. “But not as out of it as when I’d left
the sheriff’s office. Anyway, never mind that, the sheriff took the complaint seriously at first. Even offered me Rape Kit analysis. I said there wouldn’t be any point. He used a condom. Even used lube so it wouldn’t hurt me too much.”
“Okay, so he’s more caring than your average rapist. But that doesn’t make him any less of a rapist.”
“I didn’t say it did. I’m just being pragmatic about why the sheriff might not have taken the complaint seriously.”
“Whose side are you on, Annabelle?”
“I’m not on anyone’s side. I’m just saying that you might be jumping the gun on the sheriff’s motivations.”
“This guy’s corrupt from what I’ve heard. This could be big, Annabelle.”
She sighs. “Can’t we just get the guy who did it back? If you go asking questions, it’s going to be obvious who did it when we exact our revenge on him.”
She’s got a point, but I’m interested in this sheriff all the same. I think of a solution. “I’ll be real subtle when investigating. I’ll think of an angle on the way.”
Okay, half a solution. But we’ve got—what?—at least three hours to think about this subtle angle I mentioned. Minus the time it takes to figure out my plan for Megan’s investigation.
“You go in there asking questions, it’s going to be pretty obvious to the sheriff what this is about, no matter how subtle you are. How many crimes of this nature do you think occur in a small town like Hickston?” Annabelle says.
“I have no idea. That’s what I’m going to find out.”
She sighs again. “That’s my point. Then it’ll be obvious who got to Bradley. We’re going around in circles.”
“You leave this to me, Annabelle. Going around in circles is my specialty.”
I glance at Annabelle to find her looking at me funnily.
I don’t get the chance to ask why, as my cell starts ringing. It’s Megan. It’s still connected to the rental’s loud speaker, and getting it off while driving is a bitch, so I have no other choice than to press the call reject button.
