Grand Central Station.
“Hello? Heights Lock and Key.”
An older guy wearing a work shirt stood outside. I let him in, noting that the name “Joe” was emblazoned on a patch on his left pectoral. He set to work and within thirty minutes had changed out both locks. He set them to open with one key but he handed me two. “One plus a copy,” he said in his gruff but friendly voice.
“Thanks a bunch.” I paid him with a credit card and included a nice tip. “Thank you, sir,” I said, falling into my Texas respect-for-my-elders mode. He looked at me funny. He’d probably never been called
“sir” here. New Mexico is pretty informal.
“Let us know if there’re any problems with these.”
“Definitely. Thanks again.”
He gathered his tools and hefted them down the walk to his truck. I breathed easier and locked the security door. Time to shower and then get some copies of the new key made. After that, I’d go back to work on Megan’s e-mail files.
Chapter Six
I FINISHED READING through the e-mails from Cody that Megan had saved. Some were pretty mushy, but nothing really graphic. Thank God. I had been dreading reading about Megan’s sex life with a white supremacist recruiter. The e-mails she saved often included what she had written in response to something he had said and vice versa. So I actually ended up with a good record of their relationship.
They had met last June, as I had already surmised from the photos. Within a week, he asked her out and a week after that they were getting physical because he wrote that he really enjoyed dinner with her and he hoped she wasn’t “freaked out” when he kissed her. Aw, how sweet. Mr. Hitler Youth wants to make sure she’s okay. The thought of him kissing Megan pissed me off. I stopped reading for a minute, then continued. Their messages the first month they were dating were mostly like that, usually with “I can’t wait to see you” notations in them and silly, goofy things you say to that special someone you’ve just started seeing.
By month two, however, Cody had started to work his campaign. He asked Megan if she’d like to go to a barbecue with him. Yes, she would. I clicked on the next set of e-mails. Megan was uneasy here. She was confused about his friends. Why did they talk about pride in the white race? And why were they so hateful toward gay people? After all, Megan pointed out, her sister was gay.
Cody’s response was masterful. He said that some of them were just assholes but most of them just wanted the same rights as everybody else. He said he didn’t have a problem with Melissa—he used her name—but, he added, Megan had to admit that homosexuality was a little weird. It didn’t make sense biologically, since people are supposed to reproduce and you need a man and a woman for that. He apologized to her for freaking her out and could he make it up to her? I had to admit, the kid was smooth.
Megan tried a half-hearted defense of Melissa and told him that homosexuality existed even among animals and just because someone was gay didn’t mean they couldn’t have kids. Cody agreed with her in his response, but said that he was raised Christian and it just wasn’t considered “normal” but he certainly didn’t think it made any sense to run around hating. He included a Web site to an ex-gay ministry.
I recognized it as the site Megan had bookmarked in her Web browser.
In the e-mails they sent to each other over the course of the next couple of weeks, the barbecue did not come up again. The third week Cody invited her to go dancing. That reminded me. I needed to check her MP3 files and her CDs to see if she was also listening to racist music. Well, one heinous task at a time.
Another week of mushy sweet nothings. Finally, month four rolled around. Cody asked Megan if she had read the book he had given her. She had, she responded, but she wasn’t sure she believed it. The next e-mail from him was a standard explanation of Christian Identity. He provided another link—this one for a book that was advertised on the National Alliance Web site. After that, the e-mails between them were filled with more and more of Cody’s recruiting, offset with his professions of love for her and how she was the best thing that had ever happened to him. His anti-Semitism began to show up. By month six, Megan was starting to agree with him. I felt slightly sick and had to stop again. I stood up and went into the kitchen, pacing. Megan, what the hell? How could you believe his bullshit? I rubbed my forehead. I’d been researching this crap while Melissa and I were together. Megan knew that. She knew what I did. She’d talked to me a little bit about it and she’d expressed profound disgust about it And here she was, sucked in, preyed on. Why? What was it about him? Was she replacing drug addiction with another kind of addiction? Was she filling some kind of empty hole she thought she had in her soul? What the fuck?
I thought then about the years I’d known her, about the serious expression she’d get on her adolescent features when she and I had talked about her crushes on boys at school, and about college and how hard it was to be around her dad sometimes.
She’d stay with Melissa and me for a few days every now and again, and the lines of worry around her eyes would always dissipate, even with Melissa’s anxiety about Megan going back to their father’s house, with its hidden rage and pain. But Melissa wasn’t ready to confront him, wasn’t ready to tell him that Megan would live with us because she’d tried challenging him, years ago, and he exacted payment with his fists.
So Melissa made herself scarce, like Megan later learned to do, but I knew she blamed herself for Megan’s addiction and I knew that she made a pact with herself that she’d be the parent to Megan that neither of them had. But Megan’s demons proved hard to handle, harder than either of us could have imagined.
I bit back tears, remembering the way Megan could look like she was fifty and fifteen all at the same time, trying to stay clear of her parents, trying not to be noticed, and I remembered her first stint in rehab, and how she cried on my shoulder during the initial visits Melissa and I made because she felt like she’d let me down. Me. Not Melissa. Me. And I would tell her that she was strong enough to kick it, she could get through this and I loved her anyway and no matter what happened, I’d always love her. I told her that when she went into rehab the second time, too, but not as often and she looked haunted those months, surviving along the knife edge between hope and despair.
And then I let her down because when I left Melissa, I left Megan, too. If I had stayed in contact with her, would this have happened? Would she have hooked up with a guy like Cody? Or would she have remembered who she was, and how much she had overcome? If I had called her every once in a while, would that have been enough to keep her out of a group like Cody’s? I stared at my past, at the decisions I’d made, and the cold hands of guilt and regret squeezed the breath out of my lungs until I couldn’t even cry and I ached all over like I’d been beaten.
I swallowed past the lump in my throat. I’d get her out of this. I had to. No way was I going to let some asshole suck the soul from her body. Not without a hell of a fight. Hang in there, Megan. I’ll find you. I finally managed a deep breath and returned to the computer, sinking back into analytical mode.
Megan was depending on me. So was Melissa. I had to make this right. I owed it to Megan. And in a roundabout way, I owed it to Melissa, too. I jiggled the mouse to bring the e-mail back onto the screen and started reading again.
Month six, I reminded myself. Megan asked Cody if he thought Melissa could be cured. He responded in the affirmative, but she had to want to be cured. He said that being gay was like being addicted to something and then he said that he knew she knew something about that and she knew how hard it was to break an addiction. I stopped again for a little bit, needing to clear my head again. I threw a sandwich together with stuff I had bought the day before and looked over Megan’s bookshelves while I ate. I turned the radio on and tuned to my favorite public radio station, KUNM. Their afternoon music show reminded me to see what Megan listened to.
I checked the spines of the CDs in the living room, chewing another bite of my san
dwich. Megan had a few, but nothing like the collections of people who were into music before digital downloading. Standard pop. A few hip-hop CDs. I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. I hadn’t found an iPod, so if she had one or some comparable MP3 player, she probably had it with her.
I went back to her computer and opened up the file in her documents division called “Music.” More standard pop. Some country and even a few salsa tunes. Hip-hop and punk. Okay. I scrolled down. Yep, here were some racist groups. Final Solution, Oi Boys, and White Terror. These were harder-edged than punk and probably sounded like speed metal. I didn’t listen. I didn’t need to. She had one album of each on her hard drive. I wiped my hands on my shorts and went back to her e-mail files and by the end of month six, she was talking about that music with Cody.
I slogged through months seven and eight, sadness, anger, and fear twisting around in my stomach as she was drawn in to the movement. In month nine, Cody said that he could see himself marrying her and would she maybe consider that with him? He also started talking about “preparing.” That was a buzz word for the end of the world through a race war. He clarified in subsequent messages, saying that he needed a strong woman by his side in order to further the cause. He said that “something big” was going to happen soon and he had chosen her to weather the storm with him.
I sat back, trying to sort through all the emotions and thoughts running through my heart and head.
Cody Sorrell had the makings of a charismatic leader.
The rhetoric he used, the manipulation of Megan’s feelings through flattery and appeals to her strength, references to how strong she was to kick her addiction and find a path of righteousness—Megan had been sucked right in. He found her weaknesses and he exploited them, convincing her that she belonged with him, that her “friends” were in the movement.
These were tactics, I knew, that abusive partners used in relationships. Flattery, manipulation, then isolation from outside support networks, and finally, control.
Was Cody abusive, as well? Most likely. The thought tore at me, dug its teeth into my psyche.
I took a deep breath and forced myself back into research mode, paying extra attention to the e-mail messages from month ten to eleven. Cody had started saying that he had to leave soon and would she come with him? He started talking about buying a place out in the country somewhere where they could live without having to worry about minority crime or drugs. He said that they should get married and raise their children on a farm, making sure they had good things to eat and wouldn’t grow up influenced by
“corrupt Jew culture.” But he also said that he needed to get some money together for the down payment on the land. He was going to go to work for a couple of his friends, he said, and within a few months, they’d have enough. He signed off with “for blood and future.” That was a new one. Oddly, he made no reference to any particular group with which he might be affiliated. Damn.
Megan’s responses to these overtures were at first noncommittal. So she hadn’t bought it completely.
Still, the last e-mail she sent to him said that she was really looking forward to being with him forever and she had packed up a few things and was waiting for him. She sent that message the week before she disappeared. I stood, gritting my teeth. The whole relationship detailed right there. I’d tell Melissa about the e-mails, but I didn’t think she’d want to read them.
I went to the bedroom and got my address book out of my “college bag.” I flipped to Judy Hansford and dialed the number on my cell. I got her voice mail and left her a brief message along with my number and asked her to please give me a call when she had a chance. Almost five. I’d better check in with Melissa.
I dialed her number, thinking I’d probably better program it into my phone. She answered on the second ring.
“Hi.”
“Hey. I went through Megan’s e-mail files. She saved everything she got from him. It’s—” I paused.
“Well, it’s how he recruited her.”
Melissa was silent for a moment. Then, “Do I want to read them?”
“I don’t know. Some of it’s hard to take. He worked on convincing her that being gay is like an addiction and if you would just get into treatment, you wouldn’t be gay anymore.”
“Oh, God...”
“Maybe you shouldn’t,” I said. “Let me deal with it.” “Thanks.” She paused. “Is it okay if I swing by now?”
“Sure. I need to give you a new key, anyway.”
“Give me a half-hour. See you soon.”
I hung up and started poking around on Megan’s bookshelves, trying to fill the time before Melissa arrived. I found three paperbacks with inscriptions from Cody within. He loved her and was so glad she was taking an interest in his life. I flipped through the pages, noting what was underlined. Megan liked blue highlighter. I had checked the textbooks on her shelves. The underlining in these books was in black pen. Cody had given her his personal copies. I checked the shelves in her bedroom. Nothing racist here, thank God. One shelf was devoted to three framed photos, including one of Megan with Cody—I recognized it from her hard drive—and one of her with Melissa.
I remembered the trip. I had taken this photo. The three of us had gone to the Grand Canyon about eight months before Megan started using the second time.
Though they only shared one parent, they had similar facial features. Both had dark hair though Melissa’s had a sort of auburn sheen to it. Where Melissa’s eyes were a mixture of blue and gray, Megan’s were a clear blue. Both women enjoyed those high cheekbones that straight women would kill for and lesbians would die for. I stared at it for a long time, thinking that Megan had seemed happy on that trip. We all had. I put the photo down and picked up the third.
Melissa again, alone and smiling. I didn’t recognize it, so it was probably taken after I had left.
Idly, I opened Megan’s jewelry box, which sat on the top shelf. I didn’t know what I expected to see in it and I was still nervous about finding drug paraphernalia. Fortunately, only earrings and bracelets inhabited the top tray. Underneath that I found another framed photo. I almost dropped it when I looked at it. Melissa with me. We were standing near Taos Pueblo and she had her arms around my waist while my right arm was over her shoulders. We were both smiling. I remembered that trip vividly because we were celebrating the first anniversary of our official relationship.
It was late summer so we went camping in the mountains above Taos and spent a couple of days wandering the town and pueblo, inseparable.
Enjoying each other’s company and the landscape.
The sky had been impossibly blue. New Mexico blue.
So clear you could see the edges of time. The pueblo’s architecture flowed from the earth, matching the color of the soil. Windows and doorways appeared like magic in its walls. I remembered the residents going about their business, laughing and talking. I almost smelled the bread from the hornos. Pueblo dogs ran free across the dirt pathways that served as streets.
I remembered how much I loved her then and another lump formed in my throat. I remembered who had taken that picture. A local Indian man, charmed by Melissa’s smile. What happened? Where did you go, Melissa? Where did we go? I heard the security door open and hastily slid the photo back into the jewelry box and set it on the shelf before returning to the living room. Melissa stood near the door, wearing black cotton pleated slacks and a loose white blouse.
She had the two top buttons undone. The silver chain glinted around her neck. She took her shades off when she saw me and propped them on her head.
“Hi.” She offered me a smile and it made me think of that photo at Taos Pueblo.
I ran a hand through my hair. “Hey. Thanks for coming by.” I looked around, almost desperate.
Where had I put the key? Oh, on the coffee table.
“Here. It opens the security door and the front door.”
She took it and stood looking at me. “Kase, I’m really worried.”
I shifted my weight from foot to foot, extremely uneasy and a bit overwhelmed by memories. “I’ll be okay. If I think anything’s really freaky, I’ll let you know.”
She stood watching me. I read things unspoken in her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “This whole thing has been kind of stressful.” She chewed her lower lip, then glanced over at the computer. “What else can I do? I haven’t heard from Megan’s friend yet.”
“Keep checking. If I think of anything, I’ll ask.
How’s that?”
She nodded, but she wasn’t completely appeased.
“I can’t believe someone’s been trying to break in.”
“Oh, that reminds me,” I interrupted. “Can you check her closet? See if you notice anything missing that maybe wasn’t missing before?”
“Okay. But I don’t really know what she wears except maybe stuff she liked a lot.”
“It can’t hurt.” I waited for her to move past me and then I followed her into the bedroom. She stood in the closet with the light on, concentrating. She stepped back, puzzled, and looked around again.
“That’s strange,” she muttered. She looked up at me. “There’s a sweatshirt missing.”
“Really? Which one?”
“UNM. It was her favorite and when she left, it was here. I know because I hung it up. It’s not here now.”
“Are you sure?”
“Definitely. I remember it because...” her voice trailed off. “It was that one you got her when she was accepted.”
I felt like I had swallowed several large stones and they were sitting in the pit of my stomach. “And it’s gone?”
“Yes.” She had her right hand on the door jamb and she was studying Megan’s carefully organized clothing. She looked at me. “So maybe she’s still in town?”
“Possibly. Or nearby, at the very least.” Or Cody was coming by with his friends. But I doubted that.
Land of Entrapment Page 8
