Pepper had warned us in advance about Claire’s new beau. She seldom approves of her sister’s boyfriends (likewise, Claire never approves of hers; I feel certain you would have been their tie-breaker), but in this instance, Pepper’s description of Paul was not only alarming, but spot-on. I have rarely had such a visceral reaction to a person. He reminds me of the worst kind of student I used to have—the kind who is certain that they already know everything worth knowing (which invariably leads to an animal’s unnecessary suffering).
If I am being honest, the thing about Paul Scott that bothered me the most was the way he touched my daughter in front of me. I am not an old-fashioned man. Public displays of affection are more likely to make me smile than blush.
And yet.
There was something about the way this man touched my youngest child that set my teeth on edge. His arm linked through hers as they walked up to the house. His hand stayed at her back as they climbed the stairs. His fingers laced through hers as they walked through the door.
Reading back that last paragraph, it all sounds so innocuous, the typical gestures of a man who is making love to a woman, but I must tell you, sweetheart, that there was something so deeply unsettling about the way he touched her. His hand literally never left her body. Not once the entire time they were in front of me. Even when they sat on the couch, Paul held her hand until she was settled, then he threw his arm around her shoulders and spread his legs wide as if the girth of his testicles had turned his kneecaps into oppositely polarized magnets.
Your mother and I exchanged several glances.
He is a man who is comfortable airing his opinions, and confident that every single word that comes out of his mouth is not just correct, but fascinating. He has money, which is evident from the car he drives and the clothes he wears, but there is nothing moneyed about his attitude. His arrogance comes from his intelligence, not from his wallet. And it must be said that he is clearly a brilliant young man. His ability to at least sound informed on any subject matter points to a voracious memory. He clearly understands details if not nuance.
Your mother asked about his family, because we are southern and asking about someone’s family is the only way we can distinguish the chaff from the wheat.
Paul started with the basics: his father’s tour in the Navy, his mother’s secretarial schooling. They became farmers, salt-of-the-earth people who supplemented their income with bookkeeping and seasonal work with the UGA grounds crew. (As you know, this latter part-time work is not uncommon. Everyone at some point or another ends up working in some capacity for the school.) There were no other relatives but for a seldom-seen uncle on the mother’s side who passed away Paul’s freshman year at Auburn.
It was because of his childhood isolation, Paul said, that he wanted a big family—a fact that should have pleased your mother and me but I saw her back stiffen alongside mine, because the tone in his voice indicated just how he would go about achieving that.
(Trust me, sweetheart, there is a reason centuries of fathers have fought brutal wars to protect the concept of Immaculate Conception.)
After relaying the basics, Paul got to the part of his history that made your little sister’s eyes glisten with tears. That was when I knew he had her. It seems harsh to say that Claire never cries for anyone, but if you only knew, my sweet girl, what became of us after you disappeared, you would understand that she didn’t cry because there were no tears left.
Except for Paul.
As I sat there listening to the story of his parents’ car accident, I felt some old memories stirring. The Scotts died almost a full year after you were gone. I remember reading about the pile-up in the newspaper because by that time, I was reading every page in case there was some story that connected back to you. Your mother remembers hearing from a patron at the library that Paul’s father was decapitated. There was fire involved. Our imaginations ran wild.
Paul’s version of events is far more rosy (he is certainly the boot-strapper in this story), but I cannot fault a man for wanting to own his past, and there is no denying that the tragedy works its magic on Claire. For so many years, people have been trying to take care of your little sister. I think with Paul, she finally sees an opportunity to take care of someone else.
If your mother were reading this letter, she would tell me to get to the point. I suppose I should, because the point is this:
Here is the inscription Ben Carver wrote for me in the Dr. Seuss book:
“First you must have the images. Then come the words.”
Robert James Waller.
Images.
Ben had taken and distributed images of his crimes. This was part of his legend, his infamy. There were said to be hundreds of photographs and films on the black market that showed him with various victims. But Ben was already in prison. He was not giving me a clue to his own crimes. He was giving me a clue to his competition.
Images.
I had read that word before—many times before.
As with all the suspects in your disappearance, Huckleberry blacked out one particular man’s name, but here are the details I transcribed from a deputy investigator’s notes in your case file:
XXXXXX XXXXX peeping Tom. Seasonal gardener for UGA grounds crew, arrested 1/4/89; 4/12/89; 6/22/90; 8/16/91— all charges dropped. Targets older female teens, blonde, attractive (17–20). MO: stands outside ground-floor windows and takes what he calls “images”—photographs or recordings of women in various states of undress. Deceased 1/3/1992 (car accident; wife also deceased; 16 y.o. son in boarding school/Alabama).
Images.
The peeping Tom was alive when you went missing. He sought out young women around your age, around your hair color, around your beauty. Had he stood outside the window to your ground-floor bedroom and taken images of you? Had he watched you brush your hair and talk to your sisters and undress for bed? Had he seen you on campus when he was working for the grounds crew? Had he followed you to the Manhattan that night? Had he followed you again when you left the bar?
Had he decided that his images were not enough?
You may be wondering how Ben Carver got his hands on a copy of your case file. As I told you earlier, Ben is somewhat of a celebrity, even in prison. He receives correspondence from all around the world. According to the warden, Ben traffics in information. This is how he gets extra meals and protection inside the dangerous walls of death row. He finds out what people want to know and he doles it out to them at his pleasure.
Images.
How did Ben know that this word of all words would jog my memory? That it would send me running back to my wall, shuffling through my stack of notebooks, looking for the words I had transcribed from your file almost six whole years ago?
After ten months, after forty-eight visits, did Ben know my mind that well?
The question will remain unanswered. Ben is the type of psychopath who claims he likes the wind to direct his sails, but occasionally, I have seen him dip his hand into the water, rudder-like, to change the course.
And with that one word—images—he changed the course of my life.
The peeping Tom’s name was Gerald Scott.
His son is your baby sister’s new boyfriend.
TWELVE
Claire opened her eyes. The popcorn ceiling had a brownish tinge. The shag carpet felt damp against her back. She was lying on the floor. A pillow was under her head. Her tennis shoes were off.
She sat up.
Paul.
He was alive!
Claire felt a singular moment of absolute elation before she came hurtling back down to earth. Then her mind filled with questions. Why had he faked his death? Why had he fooled her? Who had helped him? What was he doing at the Fuller house? Why had he punched her?
And where was her sister?
“Lydia?” Claire could barely get out the word. Her throat was on fire. She pulled herself up to standing. She fought a rushing nausea as she stumbled against the television. Her che
ekbone sent out small explosions of pain. “Liddie?” she tried. Her voice was still hoarse, but the panic spurred her to scream as loud as she could. “Liddie?”
There was no answer.
Claire ran down the hallway toward the garage. She threw open the door. The videotapes. The chains. The blood. They were all still there, but no Lydia. She pulled the door shut behind her as she ran back down the hallway. She checked the bedrooms, the bathroom, the kitchen, her panic ratcheting higher with each vacant room. Lydia was gone. She was missing. Someone had taken her.
Paul had taken her, just like his father had taken Julia.
Claire ran onto the back porch. She scanned the field behind the house. She jogged around to the front, her heart pounding like a jackhammer. She wanted to scream and cry and rail. How had this happened again? Why had she let Lydia out of her sight?
The Tesla was still parked in the driveway. The car door handles slid out when Claire approached. The system had sensed the keyfob, which had somehow ended up in her back pocket. Both her purse and Lydia’s were dumped out on the front seat of the car. The burner phone was gone. A long, orange extension cord snaked from the front porch to the driveway and connected to the cable that charged the Tesla.
Inside the house, the phone started to ring.
Claire ran toward the back. She stopped at the kitchen door. She wanted to go in, to answer the phone, but she found herself paralyzed with fear. She stared at the ringing phone. It was white. The cord hung below, stopping several feet short of the floor. Their kitchen phone in the house on Boulevard had a cord that could stretch into the pantry because that was the only place for years that any of them could talk with a modicum of privacy.
Lydia was gone. Paul had taken her. This was happening. She couldn’t stop it. She couldn’t hide in her room with her headphones on and pretend the world outside was still spinning blissfully on its axis.
Claire forced herself to go into the kitchen. She pressed her palm against the phone but did not pick it up. She felt the cold plastic under her hand. This was a sturdy, old Princess phone, the kind you used to rent monthly from Southern Bell. She could feel the vibrations of the metal bell ringing through her palm.
The answering machine had been turned off. A pillow had been placed under her head. Her shoes had been removed. The Tesla was being charged.
She knew whose voice she would hear before she even picked up the phone.
Paul said, “Are you all right?”
“Where’s my sister?”
“She’s safe.” Paul hesitated. “Are you okay?”
“No, I’m not okay, you motherfucking piece of—” Claire’s voice strangled around the words. She went into a coughing fit that brought up enough blood to spray the back of her hand. Claire stared at the red lines streaking across her pale flesh.
Paul asked, “Is that blood?”
Claire spun around the room. Was he inside the house? Standing outside?
He said, “Look up.”
Claire looked up.
“A little to your left.”
Claire spotted what looked like an air freshener on top of the refrigerator. There was a stem of green eucalyptus leaves carved on a taupe vase. One of the leaves had been cut all the way through to accommodate a camera lens.
He said, “There are more. All around the house.”
“This house or the Dunwoody house?”
Paul didn’t answer, which was answer enough. He had been watching her. That was why there wasn’t a colored file with Claire’s name on the label. Paul wasn’t hiring detectives to stalk her one month out of the year. He was stalking her every single day of her life.
She said, “Where is Lydia?”
“I’m calling you from a comsat phone with a scrambler. Do you know what that is?”
“Why the fuck would I know what that is?”
“Comsat is an abbreviation for a series of communication satellites,” he explained, his voice maddeningly pedantic. “The phone relays calls through geostationary satellites instead of land-based cell towers. The scrambler masks the number and location, which means this call can’t be traced, not even by the NSA.”
Claire wasn’t listening to his voice. She was listening to the ambient noise. She didn’t need the NSA to tell her Paul was in a moving car. She could hear road noises and the sound of wind that always seeped in no matter how expensive the vehicle.
Claire asked, “Is she alive?”
He didn’t answer.
Her heart twisted so tight she could barely breathe. “Is Lydia alive?”
“Yes.”
Claire stared into the lens of the camera. “Put her on the phone. Now.”
“She’s unavailable.”
“If you hurt her—” Claire felt her throat tighten. She had seen the movies. She knew what could happen. “Please don’t hurt her.”
“I’m not going to hurt her, Claire. You know I would never do that.”
Tears finally came because for just a second, just the tiniest second, she let herself believe him. “Let me talk to my sister right now or I will call every Goddamn law enforcement agency in the book.”
Paul sighed. She knew that sigh. It was the one he gave when he was about to give Claire what she wanted. She heard the sound of a car pulling over. There was a rustling noise.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m doing what you asked.” The car door opened and closed. She heard other vehicles speeding by. He must be on the Atlanta Highway. How long had Claire been out? How far away had he gotten with Lydia?
She said, “Your father killed my sister.”
There was a squeaking sound as a door or a trunk was opened.
“It’s him in the video, isn’t it?” Claire waited. “Paul, tell me. It’s him, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” Paul said, “Check the phone.”
“What?”
“Lydia’s phone. It’s in the den. I hooked it up to the charger because the battery was low.”
“Jesus Christ.” Only Paul would kidnap someone and charge their fucking phone.
Claire set the telephone down on the table. She went into the den but instead of looking for the cell phone, she scanned the perimeter of the room. Another air freshener was on top of a veneered cherry bookshelf by the front door. How had she not seen that before? How had she not seen any of this?
Lydia’s phone made a chirping sound. Paul had left it plugged in on the table by the couch. The screen showed a text from an unknown number. She swiped the notice and a photo of Lydia came up.
Claire cried out. Lydia’s forehead was bleeding. One eye was swollen closed. She was lying on her side in the trunk of a car. Her hands were zip-tied in front of her. She looked terrified and furious and so alone.
Claire looked up at the camera on the bookshelf and stared all of her hate through the wires and straight into Paul’s black hole of a heart. “I’m going to kill you for this. I don’t know how, but I’m going to …” Claire didn’t know what she was going to do. She looked back down at the picture of Lydia. This was all Claire’s fault. So many times she had told Lydia to leave and she hadn’t meant it once. She had wanted her sister to keep her safe, and she’d ended up leading Lydia right into Paul’s hands.
She heard a car pull into the driveway. Claire’s heart leapt. Lydia. Paul had brought her back. She opened the front door. Plywood. There was a sliver of light around the edge. If Claire craned her neck the right way, she could see through the crack and into the driveway.
Instead of Paul, she saw a brown sheriff’s patrol car. Her view was narrow. The front windshield was dark against the afternoon light. She couldn’t tell who was inside. The driver stayed behind the wheel for an interminably long time. Claire heard her breath stuttering out as she waited.
Finally, the door was opened. A leg came out and rested on the concrete drive. She saw a tooled leather cowboy boot and dark brown pants with a yellowish stripe going up the side. Two hands grasped the door surround as the
man pulled himself out of the car. He stood there for a moment, his back to Claire as he checked the empty road. And then he turned around.
Sheriff Carl Huckabee put on his Stetson hat as he walked up the driveway. He stopped to look inside the Tesla. He took in the charger plugged into the side of the car and followed the extension cord with his eyes to the front porch of the house.
Claire pulled back from the door, though there was no way he could see her. Huckleberry was older and more stooped but he still sported the same finely combed, linear mustache and too-long sideburns that had looked out of date even in the nineties.
He had to be working with Paul. It made a sick kind of sense that the man her parents had run to for help was the same man who strung them along all these years.
Claire ran back to the kitchen. Before picking up the phone, she grabbed a sharp paring knife off the floor. She put the phone to her ear. She held up the knife for Paul to see. “I’ll slice open his neck if you don’t give me my sister back right now.”
“What are you talking about?” Paul demanded. “Whose neck?”
“You know who I—” Claire stopped. Maybe he didn’t know. The point of putting cameras on the outside of your house was that people would see them. Paul was only concerned with what was going on inside.
“Claire?”
“Huckabee. He just pulled up.”
“Fuck,” Paul muttered. “Get rid of him right now or you’ll never see Lydia again.”
Claire didn’t know what to do. “Promise me she’ll be okay.”
“I promise. Don’t hang up the—”
Claire hung up the phone. She turned around and faced the open kitchen doorway. The paring knife went into her back pocket, even as she asked herself what the hell she thought she was going to do with it. Her mind was overwhelmed with fragments of thoughts she couldn’t chase away. Why had Paul pretended to be murdered? Why had he taken Lydia? What did he want with her?
“Hello?” Huckabee’s heavy footsteps pounded up the porch stairs. “Anybody here?”
“Hi.” Claire heard the scratchiness in her voice. There was still blood coming from somewhere inside her throat. She kept thinking about Lydia. Claire had to keep calm for Lydia’s sake.
Pretty Girls: A Novel Page 26
