Finding Claire Fletcher (A Claire Fletcher and Detective Parks Mystery Book 1)

by Lisa Regan

  When my mother was there, she lifted the covers and snuggled beneath them, cradling me in her arms the way she had when I was a small child. I shrunk in her arms, filling my lungs with the scent of her, which was still familiar to me after so many years. With each breath I grew smaller and smaller until I was compact against her, an infant again, secure in the comfort of her body. A body I’d longed to curl into for ten long years. A body of love, denied to me by a monster whose sick appetite superseded all else.

  Her unconditional acceptance was as much a salve to me as the drugs the doctors gave me to heal my wounds. She was a sort of buffer against the rest of my family, all of whom sat by my bedside for hours each day but were still tentative with me, unsure how to approach me or talk to me. I sensed in her that nothing I could tell her about the ten years I’d been gone would matter. I need not tell her at all if I chose, and she would continue to hold me each day as long as I required it. This fact consumed me and birthed a great guilt in my core. So many years I had been afraid, ashamed to return home. Even as I drove back to my life with Alison clinging to my side, I dreaded facing my family again, yet here was my mother, deep lines etched around her eyes from my absence, welcoming me without caution or reserve.

  She did not ask me questions, for which I was grateful. Sometimes she talked, filling in the last ten years in a soothing voice that lulled me back into the dark oblivion of sleep brought on by painkillers. She talked about world events that had happened after my resignation to my role as Lynn, after Tiffany arrived and spent her days locked in front of the television, after I moved into the trailer and took a job at the animal hospital—when I could watch the news or read the paper.

  I knew about the Twin Towers—9/11—the Christmas tsunami, the space shuttle Columbia disaster, the war in Iraq, and the lives of United States soldiers still being lost there years later. The news—the world—was beset with unmitigated tragedies that had made my own bleak existence and the violations I endured seem trivial, silly even, in comparison.

  On 9/11, I had been in the back of the animal hospital, surrounded by whining animals when one of my coworkers rushed in and flipped on the small TV we kept there. We stood for hours, frozen in place, watching the footage. The woman next to me cried, sometimes turning her face into my bony shoulder as I watched images that looked like the interior of my soul.

  My mother talked about things that had happened during the first years of my captivity—time spent mostly in darkness and a terror that blotted everything else out. The things that had happened outside of my infinitesimal world. Things that seemed far worse as I listened to my mother recap those years as the rest of society had known them—the Oklahoma City bombing, the shootings at Columbine, the Heaven’s Gate cult mass suicide, and the gruesome murders of Matthew Wayne Shepard and James Byrd Jr., one because of his sexual preference and the other because of his race.

  I had also missed the White House sex scandal, the O. J. Simpson trial verdict, and the death and funeral of Princess Diana. My mother promised to get me history books so I could read about those years for myself. I drifted in and out of sleep as she spoke, feeling suddenly grateful to be alive and lying in a hospital bed with my mother by my side.

  On the fourth day, I woke alone for the first time. My door was propped open, and I heard men’s voices talking. I recognized Mitch’s and Connor’s voices. The other voices sounded like the detectives Boggs and Stryker.

  “Man, you look terrible. You give new meaning to the expression hammered shit.”

  “Thanks, Stryke. I appreciate that. So anything on this guy?”

  “No, but we’ve got the whole damn state looking for him.”

  “The press is all over this. Jenny and Rick want to take her home, but they’re camped right outside the house.”

  “We’re going to need a statement from her soon. You’ll have to bring her down to the division.”

  “Shit. All right. Well, they’re discharging her tomorrow. I’ll talk to Jenny and Rick. See what they want to do. There was talk of them staying at Mitch’s house for a while to avoid all the press.”

  I opened my eyes and shifted in the bed. I felt like a newborn in this sudden world of freedom, of my return to the role of Claire Fletcher. The weight of all the things to come made me heavy and exhausted. I still had many things to tell Connor, but it looked as though he wouldn’t be the only person.

  The thought of my captor on the loose chilled me. Connor had reminded me that he’d been wounded, and that his escape attempt may have been thwarted by an untimely death, but I knew better. The man who’d stolen my life was invincible. In my mind he loomed large, his voice whispering in my ear, calling me by the name he’d given me, reminding me that he could go anywhere, do anything, and walk away unscathed—free.

  I knew I would have to tell them about the bodies beneath my old bedroom window, even if it meant that I might go to prison for not coming forward sooner. Part of me needed to convince them of the depravity of my captor, the lengths that he would go to perfect his man-made universe. As long as he was free, I did not feel safe.

  My left eye had opened again. I blinked painfully, losing track of the voices beyond my door, tuning in only to the timbre of Connor’s words as they came, hearing the sound but not the meaning. I found the television’s remote control built into the bedrail and flipped it on, keeping the volume low.

  Connor had kept the television off, even while I slept, and now I saw why. Many stations had news of my return, of my rescue of Alison Ward. There were video clips and stills of my mother’s house, Connor’s house, the house and trailer where I’d spent the last five years of my life. My yearbook photo, a girl I barely recognized, flashed again and again across the screen, sometimes taking up all of it and other times floating just to the side of a reporter’s head. A reporter stood outside of the hospital, speaking into a microphone, and repeating my name. Behind her, other reporters did the same for their own cameras.

  I left the television on and climbed out of the bed. My legs were stronger, and a body brace staunched the sharp pain of my ribs as I moved to the window. Carefully, I made a small eyehole in the miniblinds and surveyed the street below me. Sure enough, news vans and reporters were spread along the sidewalk, milling, standing, and some jogging to their respective vans. There were microphones and notepads, earpieces, and video cameras.

  When I felt Connor’s hand at the small of my back, I jumped.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “Just me.”

  I gestured toward the window, swallowing hard over the lump in my throat. “They’re all here for me?”

  “Yeah. But don’t worry about them. The press is the least of our concerns right now.”

  “I didn’t want this,” I said, turning and looking up into his eyes. Peach fuzz grew around the gash on the side of his head. “I wasn’t going to come back.”

  Connor’s voice was gentle. “Why?”

  “I tried to tell you that night on the phone. I don’t know if I can do this. The questions, the press, the police. All of it. You don’t know what he did to me.”

  “Claire,” he said.

  Tears stung my eyes. I pulled away from him. “See?” I said. “I haven’t been Claire Fletcher for ten years. That wasn’t even what he called me. I’m not sure I know how to be Claire Fletcher anymore.”

  “No one expects you to be the same girl who was abducted ten years ago, Claire.”

  I shook my head, tears leaking from the corners of my eyes. I swayed and stumbled back to the bed, collapsing on the edge of it. I wrapped my arms around the front of my body. “They’ll all want to know. They’ll want to know the things he did to me.”

  Connor stepped in front of me. His voice was soft. “It wasn’t your fault,” he said.

  My lower lip trembled. “I have to give a statement,” I said.

  “You were the victim of a crime. Yes, you should give a statement to the police. Especially since this guy is still on the loose. He was going to do th
e same thing to Alison Ward that he did to you. People like him don’t stop.”

  “I know,” I mumbled.

  We were silent. I looked at Connor’s hands resting at his sides. Hands that had held a gun and shot a man. Hands that had touched my body gently, tenderly, making me feel things I had never felt at the touch of a man and didn’t think I could.

  “There are things I need to tell you,” I said.

  “You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to tell me,” he said.

  I lifted my chin and met his eyes. “I need to tell you,” I said.

  “You can tell me anything you want, Claire, but it’s your choice what and when you tell me.” He sat beside me on the bed. His hand floated tentatively over mine, testing, waiting for a protest. When I said nothing, he took my right hand in both of his, lacing his fingers through mine. “You can do this,” he said.

  “You need to know,” I began. I took a big gulp of air. “There are bodies.”

  “Rudy Teplitz and Jim Randall,” he said.

  I started. “What?”

  “They’ve been missing for some time now. After the way he came after me, I think we can safely assume that he killed them. We can’t change that, but we can give their families some closure, and when we catch this guy, we can make sure he’s held accountable for the things he’s done.”

  “There’s someone else,” I said. “A girl. Sarah.”

  “Sarah?”

  “That’s what I called her. Actually, I don’t know what her name was. He strangled her. She’s with Rudy at the second house—the house in the woods where he—” My throat seized up. I had never spoken to another soul about the things I had seen, about Sarah. She existed in my mind apart from the corporeal world, as if she had always been a figment of my imagination. It made it easier to deal with that way.

  “Do you know where their bodies are?” Connor said, and I was suddenly grateful that he was a detective who dealt with this sort of thing regularly. He didn’t recoil in horror or drop my hand as though it burned his skin. His professional mind was at work.

  “Yeah,” I murmured. “I mean I could help you find them, I think.”

  “You’re going to have to tell Boggs when you give your statement,” Connor said. “This is very important.”

  A sob rose in my throat, making my mouth feel stiff and heavy. “But I could go to prison,” I said, voice rising. “It was because of what I did—things that I did—that he killed them. He killed them because of me.”

  Connor sighed and squeezed my hand. “Look at me,” he said.

  Slowly I met his eyes.

  “Those people were murdered because he chose to murder them. Not because of you or anyone else. Killers love to place responsibility for the lives they take on everyone and everything around them, but it’s all bullshit. You didn’t make him kill Rudy or Sarah or Jim Randall. He made that choice on his own, and he’s the one who needs to bear that burden. Not you.”

  “But I never came forward, never told anyone,” I said.

  “At the time, were you in a position to call the authorities or intervene?”

  “While he was killing them? No, I … well, I didn’t know about Rudy or Jim until later. With Sarah, he chained me—made me watch. I tried to get out but I—” The sob came on full force, making my body curl and my ribs ache. With each heave of my chest, pain stabbed me in the side, making me gasp and hiccup for air.

  “Claire,” Connor said calmly. “The DA is not going to waste their time trying to prosecute you for something you had no control over. I’m sure once they hear the whole story, they’ll be far more interested in nailing this guy’s ass to the wall.”

  I nodded, though his words failed to soothe the raging anxiety coursing through my body.

  “Do you think he’ll come back for me? Try to hurt my family?” I asked.

  “What makes you think that?”

  “He always said he would. He threatened me, my family.” I told Connor about the newspaper clippings—the one about Tom’s car accident and the fire in my mother’s kitchen.

  His eyes widened. “Wow,” he muttered. He released my hand and rubbed his eyes, taking a moment to digest these facts. “Well, I think those threats were mostly to keep you there. At this point, there are so many police agencies looking for him that it would just be foolish for him to do anything retaliatory. Plus, sexual predators like him prefer to lay low if they can—that way they can keep on fulfilling their sick fantasies. The less attention drawn to them the better. At this point, I think he’ll cut his losses and run. If he comes after you or your family, he’s walking right into police custody. I think he’s too smart for that.”

  My voice cracked when I spoke. “Are you saying he never intended to follow through on his threats?”

  Connor’s face softened. “Look at your face, Claire. The threats he made were real. You were right to be afraid. But now it’s over. You’re free. He’s not coming back for you or your family.”

  I nodded. I saw the logic in what Connor said, but the fear I’d held on to for so many years was not so easy to cast off.

  “Look,” he continued. “Right now we need to focus on you and what you’re going to do next. First things first. We have to figure out where you’re going to stay when you leave here. You’ll need to give your statement. Your mom and Brianna are out shopping now. We figured you would need clothes.”

  I managed a half smile and tugged at the collar of my hospital gown. “Really? I thought I’d start a new fashion trend,” I joked.

  There was that lopsided smile I loved so much. The one I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about after I left Connor’s house that first night. The one that made me feel tingly and nervous but in a way that was not wholly uncomfortable. “Well, the hospital gown—that’s a good look for you,” he said.

  We smiled at one another. Connor glanced over my shoulder. “You shouldn’t be watching that,” he said, referring to the television.

  “I know,” I said. “I have a better view from the window.”

  Connor chuckled. “Claire.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’ll get through this. You will. You have a lot of people supporting you.”

  Tears sprang to my eyes again. “I don’t know,” I said.

  Connor stood and lifted my legs back into the bed. He covered me with a sheet and kissed my forehead as his hand found the remote control on the side rail and switched the TV off.

  “One thing at a time,” he murmured. “First, we get you out of this hospital.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  We left the hospital the next morning to go directly to the police station. Because the press was so hungry for the smallest sound bite or video clip, Connor and I left via ambulance, wearing EMT uniforms complete with hats and sunglasses. My hair was pulled back in a ponytail, which jutted out from the hole in the back of my hat. Between the hat and the thick mask of foundation my mother had painted over my face, my bruised and swollen face was not noticeable as long as I kept my distance. The uniforms masked both our injuries well.

  Less than five minutes later, we were in a parking garage beneath the police building. We took an elevator to the fourth floor, which consisted of a large room littered with unkempt desks. Men and women in smart dress clothes moved among them.

  No one looked at us or stopped to stare openmouthed. Connor guided me to the back of the large room and sat me behind his desk. “I’ll be back,” he said.

  Although my surgically repaired left hand remained in a splint, my right hand was free, and I could not stop it from trembling. To distract myself, I began opening desk drawers, peering at the contents, and closing them. I found nothing of interest until I opened the center drawer. From it, my fifteen-year-old face smiled innocently at me. I picked up the missing persons flyer, glancing briefly at the facts I already knew. Beneath the flyer was a file marked with my name. It was almost an inch thick.

  I pulled it out and set it on the desk. I d
idn’t know what to expect. I opened it, sifting slowly through the pages until I came to Connor’s handwritten notes at the very back of the file. My face paled as I read his notes about interviewing Noel Geary. Heat drained from my skin as if the floor were leeching it out from the soles of my shoes. I felt cold in the way I had for uncounted weeks in that first room—alone, naked, and unable to move.

  Connor’s voice startled me. I jumped and the chair slid back as if it had been hit with an electrical charge.

  “You okay?” he said.

  I stared at him, holding the pages of Noel Geary’s interview in my right hand.

  Connor limped around the desk and saw the contents of my file scattered across it. He began gathering the pages together. I held the other papers forward. “Noel Geary,” I said.

  Connor sighed. “I have a lot to tell you too,” he said. “But right now they’re ready for you.”

  “I wasn’t the first. I mean I wasn’t the only one.”

  Connor sat on the edge of the desk. “Well, you knew that,” he said. “You were the one who found Alison Ward.”

  I shook my head. “No. No, I thought I was the only person he’d done this to, the only person he’d hurt until Alison.”

  Connor folded his arms across his chest. His eyes were dark with concern. “Claire, people like him don’t sprout up out of the ground overnight. They don’t develop these tendencies in an epiphany one day. Usually they nurture their sexual compulsions for years, even as adolescents. You were the first he imprisoned, that we know of, but we’re betting the farm that when we figure out who this guy really is, he’ll have a long list of priors with everything from Peeping Tom and indecent exposure to fondling.”

  “I didn’t even think of that,” I mumbled.

  The bubble that had been my existence for so long was punctured, the air hissing out in a slow leak. I realized how ridiculous my words must have sounded. I thought I was the first one. I heard myself telling Tiffany he was a pedophile, out prowling the streets for young girls when he wasn’t home. I’d said it to taunt her, to hurt her, never taking into account the gravity of my accusations. By that time, my entire world had narrowed to a solitary pinpoint, a singular focus—me. My survival, which most of the time had hardly seemed worth the fight.