by Laurel Dewey
Jane spun around, rage seeping from her pores. She made sure Charlotte was secure before she pulled out her Glock and headed the few yards to where Lou teetered upright against the sand and rock. Pointing the gun at his head, she screamed, “You want to feel pain, motherfucker?”
He looked at Jane, his eyes half open. “Do it,” he whispered.
Jane slammed the butt of the gun against Lou’s forehead. “I’m not afraid to kill you!”
The insanity suddenly drained from Lou’s face. In its place, torment and anguish lay etched. “Please...make it stop,” he gasped, “kill me.”
Jane stared into Lou’s desperate eyes. “Dying is what you want,” Jane said, “so I’ll let you live.”
Lou’s eyes rolled back into his head as he grabbed his bleeding wound and, falling unconscious, collapsed backward onto the rocks.
Jane holstered the Glock and darted back to Kit, kneeling next to her soaked body. The hunting knife was lodged too deeply in her chest for Jane to remove it. She grabbed Kit’s hand, holding it tightly. “Kit, I—”
“Charlotte....” she whispered.
“She’s fine. She’s drugged but she’s alive.”
A victorious smile swept across Kit’s ashen face. “Good....”
Jane leaned closer to Kit. “Why did you take off?”
“You’ll understand....”
“I’ll understand?”
“Soon....” Kit’s voice drifted, “you’ll understand.” She turned her head, focusing on the knife handle.
Jane felt a wave of helplessness overcome her. “I can’t pull it out, Kit. It’s in your heart.”
“Aah,” Kit said, weakly arching an eyebrow. “That’s a supreme metaphor....”
Jane wasn’t giving up. “I dialed 911. Help should be here any second.”
Kit managed a feeble smile. “Suddenly you’re an optimist?”
Jane grabbed Kit’s hand. “Hold on, Kit.”
“It’s okay, Jane. It’s...what I....” Kit moaned. Her eyes glazed over briefly as she tried to focus on Jane’s face. “I....” She rolled her head to the other side and fixated on a face. Her eyes brightened as she held her hand outward. Jane knew the look. She stared into the void and saw nothing. But she could feel her presence. She was kneeling beside her grandmother and holding her hand, waiting to catch her spirit and take it home. “I’m ready,” she whispered before she took her final breath and passed between the shadows and into the light.
Jane rested her head on Kit’s chest and felt the life slip from her body. As much as she wanted to grieve her death, the grace of that last moment was too profound.
Charlotte let out a shallow cry. Jane crawled to the child, drawing her onto her lap and covering her tightly with the jacket. The sound of police sirens blared in the distance, converging on the lake. Jane shielded Charlotte’s face from the penetrating sun and stared into the distant sky. The sirens grew louder as a solitary red-tailed hawk circled above their heads.
For Jane, the next few days fell like lead around her heart. Sergeant Weyler offered to come out and assist, but Jane declined his offer, preferring to get the formalities over with and leave. She carried on professionally, debriefing the FBI and Sheriff Golden on her involvement with the case; she turned over all the evidence she had that linked Lou Peters to Ashlee’s murder.
However, a dull ache had gradually engulfed her senses. After the reward fund was awarded to Jane, she quietly gave the money to Mary Bartosh. The act did nothing to buoy her flagging spirit.
It didn’t feel like a conquest to her when she successfully barred Clinton from capitalizing on Charlotte’s story and exposed him as a corrupt opportunist.
When Trace Fagin walked free into the arms of his wife and children, the moment was short of victorious.
When she passed Shane Golden on the street with his father and realized that the boy had no intention of ever telling anyone of his relationship with Charlotte, she regarded him with an inert expression.
As the final pieces of the puzzle started to fit—the connection between Lou stealing the Valium from Genevieve’s purse fourteen years prior and repeating the same theft of Rachel’s sleeping pills—the realizations lacked profound impact for Jane. When it was firmly established that Rachel Hartly’s only crime was suffering the same blindness as her mentor, Jane didn’t feel a need to contact Rachel and strong-arm her into compunction.
As for Dr. John Bartosh, it didn’t take investigators long to link him with Lou Peters. The news media grabbed onto the story like a leech. Satellite trucks from every cable news station lined up in front of his house in Grand Junction, monitoring each move he made and turning his controlled life into a living hell. The story was just too good. “Respected head of Christian Congregation linked to murderer and child rapist.” It was guilt by association for Bartosh as news programs encouraged the public to call in their votes on whether Bartosh should be liable and face prison for his ignorance. As the months unraveled, Bartosh would eventually escape time behind bars. But his reputation would be burned forever.
As for Lou Peters, he would stand trial for the murder of Kit Clark and her granddaughter as well as the kidnapping, rape, torture, and imprisonment of Charlotte Walker. With her testimony and indisputable evidence, Jane would make sure that Lou would never see the outside of a prison wall again.
But that was all to come. As she wrapped up the loose ends before leaving Oakhurst, she couldn’t shake off the deadness she felt inside her heart. It was as if Jane’s entire soul had been stripped bare and all that remained was a raw, blank canvas. She made final arrangements to have Kit’s body cremated and the remains sent to her. On January 9, Jane packed Kit’s possessions into her trunk and headed out of town. But there was one stop she had to make before she left.
Jane considered it an obligation that she’d rather forego. She’d received the handwritten message that Charlotte wanted to talk to her in person. From Jane’s observations of Charlotte in the infamous birthday video, she surmised that the girl usually got what she wanted.
Jenny Walker greeted Jane at the door with an effusive hug and teary welcome. The living room of the Walker house was filled with flowers and colorful foil balloons that sported WELCOME HOME, CHARLOTTE! messages. To Jane, it seemed odd. From what she knew the girl had gone through, the celebratory atmosphere felt irreverent.
“Charlotte’s in her bedroom,” Jenny offered in a breathy, nervous voice. It was clear that the woman was in awe of Jane and the vaunted reputation that followed her. For Jane, it made the whole visit that much more uncomfortable. After offering Jane an array of beverages and Jane settling on coffee, Jenny rapidly reported their plans. “Charlotte wants to be homeschooled, at least for this year.” Jane privately wondered why a social butterfly would opt for such an austere educational option. “But the doctors want to give her another month or so to decompress before we launch into any of that.” Jane nodded politely and took a sip of coffee, knowing full well the decompression would take a helluva lot longer than a couple months. “And we’ve made another decision,” Jenny declared with anxious enthusiasm. “We’re going to church every Sunday from now on!”
“Really?” Jane replied, showing no emotion.
“I think it’s a good idea,” Jenny said, searching for approval. “Comforting, you know?”
“Yeah. Comforting.” Jane could have said more, but the solution seemed absurd, given the ironic religious bent of Charlotte’s abductor. Jenny led Jane down a cheerful yellow hallway lined with one photograph after another of Charlotte smiling playfully for the camera. Upon reaching the closed door, Jenny softly knocked and announced Jane’s visit. To Jane, it sounded as if she were being introduced to the royal gallery.
“I’m coming.” Jane immediately noted that the child’s voice was restrained.
Jenny self-consciously addressed Jane with a whisper. “She locks the door now.”
Charlotte unlocked the door and slowly opened it. She wore no makeup and, to
Jane, the kid suddenly looked younger than twelve. A baggy, brown plaid, long-sleeved flannel shirt hung loosely on her body, obscuring any sign of her large breasts, while a pair of gray sweat pants, also a size too large, completed the drab façade. “Hi....” Charlotte said, obviously self-conscious and tense. “Come in.”
Jane slid past Charlotte and stood at the foot of her bed. Charlotte quietly closed the door and locked it. The yellow shades on the three windows were pulled down. Jane noted that wooden dowels had been placed within each window as an extra safety precaution. While the sun shone brightly outside, the room felt dim and painfully claustrophobic. Charlotte’s bed was covered with clothes from her closet. A large plastic trash bag lay against a near chair, bursting with additional clothing.
“You can sit on the bed if you want,” Charlotte said in a weak voice. “Sorry it’s a mess.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Jane took a seat on the edge of the bed, resting her leather satchel on the floor. An unexpected wave of compassion rushed over her. The kid she had privately judged at times was as much an empty shell as she was. Several moments of hard silence passed as their unspoken bond solidified.
“I wanted to....” Charlotte struggled with her words as she fidgeted with the seam of her flannel shirt. “To...say....” Her eyes filled with fat tears. “To say thank you.” Her voice caught as the tears rolled down her pale cheeks. There was a raw fear behind her eyes, smothered in a dark nightmare she couldn’t quite recollect.
Jane did everything she could to control her emotions. “I’m glad I was there.” Charlotte looked smaller to Jane than she had when she dragged her limp body to safety by the lake. Fragile.
Charlotte continued to roll the edge of the shirt seam between her thumb and first finger. “I don’t remember anything,” she quickly said. “The last thing I remember is walking into the cabin with him....” Her voice drifted far away.
“It’s okay, Charlotte,” Jane leaned forward and touched the kid’s arm. “You don’t need to dredge it up.”
Charlotte looked at Jane, her hazel eyes glistening with tears. “But it’s right there.” Her young mind desperately tried to reconcile it. “...on the edge of my head.” She looked down at the cluttered carpet, not focusing on anything in particular. “I used to love the smell of cedar. But it makes me throw up now.” Charlotte turned to Jane, searching her face for answers. “Is that crazy?”
Jane recalled the cedar-walled closet that served as Charlotte’s prison for twelve days. “You’re not crazy, Charlotte,” Jane gently replied.
“Are you gonna go to court and tell them what you saw happen to me?”
“Yes,” Jane said with authority. “And you have my word that he will never get out of prison again.”
“I...I heard the sheriff talking to my mom when I was in the hospital. He said I might have to get up in court and...tell them... things. Is that true?”
Jane tried to hide her disgust for a system that insisted on reviolating the victim in court. “If you don’t want to do it, there’s no law that’s gonna make you.”
A look of abject shame fell over Charlotte as tears streamed down her face. “They took pictures of me in the hospital. Pictures of my body. Here and down there.” Charlotte sheepishly pointed to her breasts and groin area. “People I don’t know are gonna see those pictures and that’s not right.” She broke down, choking on fear and humiliation.
Jane pulled Charlotte toward her, holding her tightly against her chest. The free-spirited child that had posed for the camera in the birthday video was dead. Jane knew the predictable cycle had begun. The traumatic event occurs and you’re never the same again. Your world closes tightly around you. Your perspective of every experience is viewed through victim’s eyes. The pain and shame grow into festering anger and then unbridled rage. You approach each day like a battle and fasten your emotional armor tightly to deflect vulnerability. Emotional detachment quickly takes hold so you don’t have to feel. Numbness sets in and life becomes flat. You feel you have to do it to protect yourself against a world that has become evil and intent on violating those who can’t defend themselves. Then the self-destruction begins.
Charlotte hysterically sobbed into Jane’s shoulder. “I want to—”
“Disappear,” Jane stated in a simpatico tone.
Charlotte lifted her head from Jane’s shoulder and stared at her. “Yeah....” Someone understood her. “People saw me naked....” She fell into Jane’s shoulder, softly crying.
The same damn pattern was forming, Jane thought. She tenderly lifted Charlotte’s head away from her body. “Tell me why you’re throwing out all this stuff.”
The child scanned the heap of clothes on the bed and the plastic trash bag on the floor. “Because....” she offered weakly, “they’re too...bright.”
“They draw attention to you,” Jane stated.
“Yeah.”
Jane turned around and sorted though the pile on the bed. She pulled out a red spandex top that looked to be two sizes too small for Charlotte’s chest. “Well, this one’s probably not the best choice for you.” She unearthed an orange vest with a diamond pattern. “But this is colorful. Nothing wrong with color—”
Charlotte snatched the vest away from Jane and quickly buried it in the trash bag. “No! People will look at me!”
Jane reached up and stroked Charlotte’s cheek. “Oh, God, Charlotte. Don’t do this to yourself. Take my word for it. You’re walking down a rocky pathway. There’s something called ‘the middle path.’ This is not it,” Jane held up the red spandex top. “But this is,” she uncovered a bright green sweater. Jane collected her thoughts. “Ever heard of Buddhism?” Charlotte shook her head. “It’s not a religion. It’s a philosophy,” she said, recalling a bittersweet memory from only twelve days ago. “They believe in that middle path, among other things. The path between this,” she held up the spandex top, “and this.” She pointed to Charlotte’s oversized brown plaid shirt. “You don’t want to be bold and brazen anymore. I understand that. So this one goes.” Jane tossed the spandex top into the trash bag. “But if you choose this one,” she softly stroked the flannel shirt, “you choose an equally bad extreme. You choose to hide your spirit. And your spirit is why good people love you.” Jane pulled Charlotte close to her. “If you drown your spirit, he wins... and you lose everything.”
Tears rolled down Charlotte’s cheeks. “But I’m scared,” she whispered.
“I know. Believe me, I know. But it takes more courage to live strong than die slowly.”
Charlotte nodded. “You know what I told my mom about you? I said you were the angel who saved me.”
Jane lowered her head. “But I’m not.” She withdrew her wallet from the leather satchel and removed a photograph. Fondly, she looked at the photo before handing it to Charlotte. “You have two angels right there.” Charlotte stared at the photo of Ashlee reposed in Kit’s arms. “They’re the ones who made sure you were found safely.”
The child was in awe. “Can I talk to them and tell them ‘thank you?’”
Jane nodded, a well of emotion caught in her throat. “Every morning...and every night.” Jane lifted her satchel and stood up. Charlotte handed the photo back to Jane. “It’s yours.” Jane hugged the child and whispered in her ear. “Make them proud, Charlotte.”
Jane hoped the drive back to Denver would ease the numbness within her heart. But by the time she arrived at her doorstep in the early morning hours of January 11, her thirty-sixth birthday, the unnatural emptiness still persisted.
Jane turned on the living room light and set down her bags. Mike had dutifully stacked her mail on the kitchen table next to a pile of Denver Post newspapers. Jane scooped up the mail and shuffled through them. A bright yellow envelope caught her attention. There was no return address, but the January 5 postmark was from Oakhurst, California. Next to the stamp was an ink imprint that read, HOWDY! FROM THE BONANZA CABINS! The handwritten address looked familiar. She opened the envelope a
nd removed a greeting card. There was a drawing of a red-tailed hawk on the cover of the card. Its wings swept upward as, beneath it, a snake slithered against a rock. A vibrant blue lotus flower emerged between them. Jane felt a catch in her throat as she read the quote at the bottom; the same quote by T.S. Eliot that Kit had left on her computer.
And the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.
Jane opened the card. The two missing sobriety chips fell to the floor. Jane collected them. They still had bits of embedded sand from where they’d fallen in Cousin Carl’s front yard. A long handwritten letter filled the inside of the card.
Dear Jane P.,
I imagine you’ve never received a birthday card from the newly departed. So let me be the first dead soul to wish you a happy birthday.
First, let’s get some business out of the way. Contact Barbara and tell her to look behind the bookshelves in her living room. She’ll find my life insurance policy there and the information she needs to collect the $500,000.
Now, for you. I’m writing you this card because you’ve been a true friend to me and you deserve to know the truth. I never intended to return to Boulder. I left with a clear intention and a plan to carry out that pure purpose. It might be hard for you to understand now, but as one nears their demise, the need to complete and come full circle is obvious. I don’t fear death. I welcome it. Take away the fear of death and one’s courage soars. One is able to do the thing that could kill them. If my intuition is correct, then my plan will have succeeded. So don’t grieve a day for me.
As I feel the light of God coming closer, I have a sense of calm and inner knowing. It’s not by chance that you and I met, Jane. Our souls chose it. We choose everything, Jane—every heartache and each breath of joy. My choice was obvious, perhaps only to me. But I knew that before I died, I had to do what I could to stop the wheel of destruction. I had to forgive him and, hopefully, allow that seed of compassion and love to grow in his soul. My hope is that during his dark night, he remembers that moment and purges his pain forever. One’s touch on another is not always evident, but years later, God willing, that connection is remembered by the heart and the pattern of hatred can stop.
