Colin hissed in a breath. As much as he’d clearly been anticipating such news, it had still caught him off guard.
“We believe Devon Goulding was a predator. We believe it’s possible that both of those young women fell victim to him, that their licenses are trophies of sort.”
“He killed them,” Colin said.
“We don’t know. We have detectives working on locating each woman. But as of now . . .”
“You can’t find them.”
“We haven’t found them.”
“He killed them,” Colin repeated.
“Give us another forty-eight hours,” D.D. said, thinking of the progress being made by her very excellent team, “and we can probably answer that.”
“Now, tell him what you didn’t find,” Pam interjected firmly.
D.D. kept her gaze on Colin Summers, who was still leaning forward, shoulders rigid.
“We didn’t find any sign of Stacey. No photos. No driver’s license. Not a strand of hair, nor trace of fiber.”
Colin didn’t sit back. He didn’t relax. He just continued to stare at her as if he couldn’t absorb such news.
“Mr. Summers, I told you the truth this morning. We believe Devon Goulding was a rapist, maybe even a murderer. But we don’t, as of this time, have any reason to believe he was the man who took your daughter. In fact, given his custom of keeping trophies—the driver’s licenses, photos—chances are, he’s not.”
“But you’re here.”
“Colin,” Pam interjected, “it’s time for you to tell us what you know about Goulding. Why you suspect him for your daughter’s case.”
“What? How would I know him? I just heard about him on the news, like everyone else.” He shot D.D. another angry glance.
“Really? And what did Flora have to say about him?”
Colin flinched. His gaze dropped. Abruptly, he sat back. All the better to put distance between him and them, D.D. thought.
“Colin, I know you want answers.” Pam again. “I know you love your daughter. I know you would do anything to get her back.”
“Did you hire a private investigator?” D.D. spoke up. “To help find Stacey?”
Colin didn’t speak. He no longer appeared angry to D.D., but stark. A father who was trying to keep his heart from breaking.
“Mr. Summers, I can get a warrant for your phone records,” D.D. continued, “as well as for the security cameras in this building. Such actions will take away resources the Boston police could otherwise spend continuing the search for your daughter, but if I have to . . .”
“I know Rosa Dane,” he conceded abruptly. “She’s our mentor. I told you that.”
“She shared her story with you, correct? That’s part of her role. Letting you know what she went through and, even more importantly, that even after being kidnapped for over a year, a daughter can come home again.”
Colin nodded.
“Rosa’s honest. She told you about Flora’s struggles, didn’t she? About how you can get a happy ending, but still not live happily ever after. How her own daughter has spent the past five years obsessed with criminal behavior and self-defense in order to try to feel safe again.”
Colin didn’t say anything.
“And that got you to thinking. The police haven’t been able to help you. Apparently, you weren’t satisfied with any of the private investigators you interviewed—”
He scowled at Pam, clearly irritated that the victim specialist had revealed so much.
“So what about Flora Dane? What about a girl who’s truly been there and done that? Who’s become something of an expert on kidnapping and abduction. Why not talk to her?”
He chewed his lower lip.
“You met her here,” Pam spoke up. “In this office. It’s the only place you have any privacy. And you wouldn’t want Pauline to know—it would upset her. And you wouldn’t want me to know because I wouldn’t approve. So you contacted Flora and arranged to meet her here. Remember, Colin, we can pull security footage.”
“Fine. I met with Flora. In this office. We just talked, though. After everything Rosa had said, I was curious to meet Flora in person. A survivor, you know. Someone who did make it. As for Flora, she’d clearly been following Stacey’s case. She had questions of her own.”
“When did you meet with her?” D.D. asked.
“I don’t know. Three weeks ago?”
“I want the day. Monday, Tuesday, third Saturday of October? Be specific.”
Colin scowled, but after a moment, he pulled out his cell phone, consulted his calendar. “Tuesday, second week of October, three P.M. Better?”
“How long did you talk?”
“Hour. Maybe ninety minutes.”
“Did she have theories on Stacey’s abduction?” Pam interjected.
Colin shrugged. “Nothing new, just the usual. What did we know of her online activities? Who were her friends she went out with that night, how big a drinker, could she handle herself? She wanted to know about Stacey’s . . . resources. I mean, my daughter’s athletic. People don’t always take it seriously, but cheerleading is an intense sport. Flora said that would be a mark in my daughter’s favor. Then she wanted to know if Stacey had taken any self-defense, karate, carried Mace, anything like that. She hadn’t. What about mental resilience. How my daughter functioned under pressure. I . . . I couldn’t really answer. Maybe Pauline could. But my job, my whole life, has been to keep my daughter from being under that kind of stress. To take care of her. To keep her safe.”
Colin Summers’s voice broke. He looked away. Neither Pam nor D.D. spoke. After another moment, he composed himself. “I said Stacey’s smart. If she could figure a way out, she would. But also . . . Stacey’s sweet. And I don’t just mean that as her father. From a very early age, she has always been so . . . likeable. Total strangers gravitate to her. And she gravitates to them. She’s one of those people, she sees the best in everyone. Flora said . . . Flora said that might help her. She said the guy who kidnapped her used to talk about killing her all the time. She listened. Agreed with everything he said, did whatever he wanted. And eventually, the guy didn’t talk about killing her anymore. Eventually, he decided to keep her instead.”
“Did Flora think Stacey was still alive?” D.D. asked curiously. Too late, she caught Pam’s warning glance.
“Of course my daughter is still alive!”
“And Flora agreed with this assessment.”
“She thought it was highly possible!”
“Colin,” Pam interjected quietly, “did you hire Flora to find your daughter?”
“No. Of course not. I mean, she’s just a kid herself. A past victim. I’d never do such a thing.”
“Remember, we can subpoena your financials.”
Colin glared at the victim specialist. “At what point are you on my side on any of this?”
“Why don’t you consider me on Pauline’s side?” Pam Mason smiled sweetly. Colin blanched.
“I didn’t hire Flora. Not . . . exactly.”
“She offered to help,” D.D. filled in.
“She was already well versed on the case! Had been following it on her own. And her mother hadn’t exaggerated. The things she knew, talked about. Flora Dane was more impressive than any of the private investigators I interviewed. And definitely more vested in finding my daughter than any of you detectives have been!”
D.D.’s turn to arch a brow, but never argue with a grieving father.
“How much did you pay her?” she asked in clipped tones.
“Nothing.”
But D.D. caught the edge. “Nothing . . . yet?” She sat back. “Reward. You offered her a reward if she helped find your daughter.”
“We’re already offering a public reward. Nothing wrong with that.”
“I disagree. Flora Dane may talk the t
alk, but at the end of the day, she is just a young woman. A past victim. You took advantage of her obsessions.”
“She offered. Given how little progress the professionals have made, I didn’t feel inclined to argue. But no money has changed hands and you can’t prove anything.”
“Did she bring you word of your daughter?”
“No. Actually, I hadn’t heard anything more from her. But I figured it would take time for her to work her channels, as she called it. Then, Saturday, when I turned on the news and heard about that bartender . . . I knew. I knew it had to be Flora, searching for my daughter.”
“Except Devon Goulding didn’t kidnap your daughter.”
“Shouldn’t you be asking Flora about that?”
“We can’t. Flora’s gone missing. In fact, we have reason to believe she was abducted from her apartment sometime late yesterday. Perhaps by the same man who took Stacey. I guess you can say we do have a new lead in your daughter’s case, Mr. Summers. We’re no longer looking for one missing girl, we’re now looking for at least two.”
Chapter 23
NO ONE WANTS TO BE A MONSTER.
Fake Everett told me this time and again. It wasn’t his fault he was the way he was. He didn’t ask to have sex fantasies every minute of every waking hour. To be turned on by pictures of big-boobed girls bound and gagged. To be aroused by the sound of metal chains snaking across the floor.
He once read a news story about a peeping tom discovered in the honey bucket of some state park’s composting toilet.
The peeping tom made up some tale of having lost his wedding ring, had to go in after it. But the police discovered the guy had a whole history of being caught in port-a-johns, outhouses, all that crap—fake Everett would laugh as he said the word crap, pleased with himself.
Anyway, some expert claimed the guy had a potty fetish. He was aroused by standing in poo, spying on strange women doing doody.
Not making this up, fake Everett would say, taking his hands off the steering wheel of his big rig, as if to prove his point.
Now, who in his right mind would choose to be turned on by crap? Everett would continue. It was a sickness, clearly, an obsession he probably wished he didn’t have. Imagine a life sneaking around looking for public potties? Covered in stench?
Well, kidnapping me, raping me, assaulting me, that wasn’t his fault either—fake Everett was very earnest on this subject.
For as long as he’d had memory, he’d been filled with thoughts of sex. Even as a little boy, before he knew what sex was, he’d stare at boobs and wish he could touch ’em. His mom’s, his grandma’s, total strangers. It didn’t matter. He knew there was something out there he wanted, had to have. Just took him a bit to understand what it all meant, and then . . .
He’d tried to be normal, he’d whine. Have a girlfriend, stick to missionary, tell himself he could be satisfied with three times a night. He’d even gotten himself a wife. Surely that would work.
Except he didn’t want plain-Jane sex. He didn’t want some dutiful wife lying like a cold fish beneath him. He was a man; he had needs. And obsessions. Deep hardwired fantasies and thoughts he couldn’t let go, even if no one understood but him.
He’d beat up his first wife. Pounded her to a bloody pulp so bad he’d had to call an ambulance. The docs in the ER had ratted him out, and the police had arrested him while his wife was still unconscious and couldn’t explain it was all her fault—a good wife should never say no.
He’d had to serve time, which had been a lesson in and of itself. Plenty of sex behind bars—don’t get him started—but none of it was his kind of deal. Definitely no place for a man with his needs.
In prison, he’d had to attend group sessions. For rage management. Impulse control. Even learned about sex addiction. First time he’d ever heard there was something abnormal about wanting so much sex all the time. Something unhealthy.
He decided when he got out he’d try to quit. Like an alcoholic, he’d go cold turkey. No sex, no terrible hungers, no fits of rage, no more time in jail. Good deal.
Except people can live without alcohol. But no man can live without sex.
Which is how he ended up attacking a fourteen-year-old girl.
Not his fault. He didn’t ask to be born this way.
No one wants to be a monster.
His mama wasn’t bad. His father, well, yeah, he was a real asshole. But he was never around. Nah, fake Everett was raised by his mama, who worked two jobs, chain-smoking in between. When he was real little, he’d shuttled between her and his grandma’s house. When he was older, six or seven, he stayed home alone. He’d watch TV shows where the women were super skinny with massive chests and clingy tops. Then he found his father’s stash of skin mags. After that, he couldn’t wait for his mother’s work shifts. He spent hour after hour flipping through pages, staring at the pictures.
When he was thirteen, he explained as we drove across the state of Alabama, he wanted to be a porn star. Thought it would be the best job in the whole world. ’Course, when he turned sixteen and his chest was still a scrawny, hairless wasteland, and his face was covered in acne, and his hair was an oil slick . . .
Even a total fuckup like him could realize porn stars looked one way . . . and he didn’t.
He still loved porn. And now, thanks to the wonders of the Internet, he could take it with him everywhere.
None of this surprised me. I already knew the second fake Everett was done driving for the day, he’d load up his favorite sex videos into the DVD player, pop open my prison, and we’d be off and running. It didn’t matter if I was tired or hungry or sore. It didn’t even matter if he was tired or hungry or sore. A man had needs. This was his biggest need.
No one wants to be a monster.
* * *
YOU CAN TEACH YOURSELF not to feel anything. To fly away. Sometimes, I pictured myself in the meadow, playing with the foxes. But I didn’t like that. It felt too tainted. So I pictured bright blue sky. A bluebird sky, we called it in New England, when the winter sky turned a rich, true blue, versus the overbright, summer-bleached alternative.
During the day, I was the perfect listener. An audience of one for a man who could really talk and talk and talk. Then, by night, I became an inanimate object, to be moved and positioned and posed this way and that by the same narcissistic asshole. What did it matter to me?
Eventually, when he was done, he’d offer me food. Or a drag of his cigarette. Or a swig from his beer.
We would sit in silence, the big rig filled with the scents of sweat and sex. And for a minute, or two or three, he’d almost seem happy.
“You’re pretty,” he told me once. “That’s why I had to take you. I saw you. Dancing. All that hair jiggling right above your ass. Made a man look, all right. Except, of course, a girl like you . . . you’d never even give someone like me the time of day.” He stated it matter-of-factly. I didn’t argue. “So I did it my way. And here we are. Touring the country like two crazy fools. Now what d’you think? Burgers or pizza for dinner tonight?”
He fed me. Then there would be more sex. Then, back to the box for me. Except as days became weeks . . . Sometimes, he fell asleep. Sometimes, I got to stay there, lying on the softness of the sleeping bag, my wrists still bound, one ankle shackled to a large metal ring on the floor, but still . . .
I didn’t sleep those nights. I forced my eyes to stay open. I drank in the slippery feel of the nylon sleeping bag versus my usual bed of hard pine. I took in the softness of night, just beyond the sleeper cab’s narrow windows. I listened to him snore, and I thought, if I could just get my bound wrists around his neck. Or find the strength to press a pillow against his face or shove a pencil into his eye.
But I never made any such moves, never acted on my own fantasies. Sometimes, when he was sleeping, he almost looked human. Just another guy grateful to have survived another
day.
I wondered if his mother or grandmother were still alive. I wondered if they missed him, or if they knew by now who he truly was and regretted their mistakes.
I didn’t think of my mom anymore. Or my brother or the beauty of foxes. I lived flying against a bluebird sky. And there were good days, where I got to sit on the passenger’s seat of the cab, my bound hands out of sight, and watch the countryside rush by. And there were bad days, where something pissed him off and he drank more and hit more and punished me more.
But there were lots of days that were merely days. When fake Everett would talk. I would listen. The road would roll by. And maybe a song would come on the radio, and I would surprise myself by humming along, and he would surprise me by joining in. And we’d sing along to Taylor Swift.
I learned he liked The Carol Burnett Show and I Love Lucy episodes and Bonanza, which he used to watch with his grandma. While I talked about SNL and my addiction to Grey’s Anatomy.
“McDreamy,” he said, surprising me. Later he showed up with a box set of Grey’s Anatomy’s first few seasons and loaded a disc into the DVD player for me.
That night, as he pounded away like a jackhammer, I thought of Seattle hospitals and ridiculously good-looking doctors and maybe one day, someday, a hunky intern holding my hand as they rushed in my bruised-and-battered form. I’d been rescued. I’d escaped. I’d finally killed fake Everett, and now for my reward.
A McDreamy of my own to heal my wounds and keep me safe forever.
But I didn’t dream that much. I didn’t think ahead or wonder about that future or what would one day become of me. Mostly, I flew against a bluebird sky, my body bound but my mind long gone.
“Lindy,” he woke me up, crying out in his sleep one night. “Lindy, Lindy, Lindy.”
He sounded like he was sobbing piteously, fingers scrabbling against the sleeping bag beside me.
“No, no, no,” he cried. “Oh, Lindy!”
Do monsters have nightmares? Do they even dream?
He sounded like he was dying. As if his world had ended. As if fake Everett must’ve once had a heart because now it was being ripped out of his chest.