Coming for You

by Deborah Rogers

  “Amelia,” I say.

  “So how do you know Gwen? Were you in the academy with her?”

  I shake my head. “I’m a friend of Beth’s.”

  “Beth’s a trouper,” says Dan, taking a swill of champagne. “I can’t imagine Gwen’s easy to live with.”

  “Oh, Dan. You Judas. I dare you to say that to her face,” says Cruella.

  “Well, I think they make a very cute couple, don’t you agree, Amelia?” says Denise.

  I nod. “They look very happy together.”

  “I give it a year, eighteen months tops,” says Dan. He gets another slap on the arm for that one.

  But everyone laughs at his audacity. I find myself laughing, too. I go with it, seeing myself from above, forgetting the bad times, just being normal, zero pain in my half foot. I feel like my old self.

  “Wait a minute.” It’s from the woman with the red Chanel frames, late twenties, no makeup. She’s been silent this whole time. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”

  “I don’t think so,” I say.

  She stares at me and looks at my cane. She rubs her thumb along her lower lip, thinking. Her face clears as the light goes on in her head and I know what’s coming. I feel utterly nauseous.

  “You’re that girl. The wilderness chick.”

  And just like that all eyes jump on me, half-appalled, half-pitying.

  I could lie. I could say that it wasn’t me. I could say that this happens sometimes, that I am mistaken for that poor wretch, because apparently, ha-ha, I look a lot like her. A doppelganger. Some people are spitting images of Sandra Bullock or Miley Cyrus, but my misfortune is to look like that wilderness chick who was kidnapped, raped, and left for dead in the Oregon wilderness. But I don’t lie; instead I say—

  “Well, you got me there.” I aim for funny but come across as strange and slightly demented.

  “Oh, I remember reading about that,” one of them says. I don’t know who because I am looking everywhere except their faces.

  “That must have been rough.”

  “What was it like being out there the woods with that lunatic?” says Dan.

  They wait for me to say something but I don’t.

  Dan wrinkles his nose. “Still a bit raw?”

  “Maybe she doesn’t want to talk about it, Dan,” says Denise.

  Dan ignores her and continues, “I know they say you faked it, but the thing with the foot, I always said, no way you can’t make that shit up.”

  “Jesus, Dan, that’s real classy.”

  But Dan’s on a roll. “Did they ever catch him? The oil refinery dude.”

  “Rex Hawkins,” Red Chanel Glasses pipes in.

  “Yeah, that guy,” says Dan.

  I swallow. “No.”

  “You’re joking! You mean he’s still out there? Oh, man, that would freak me out,” says Dan, shaking his head.

  “Dan,” this time hissed through Denise’s perfect set of veneers. “You’re scaring the poor thing.”

  I put down my champagne glass. “If you’ll excuse me.”

  I don’t wait for goodbyes. Behind me there are hushed reprimands for Dan. I don’t even try to find Beth. I just leave.

  19

  The cold air blasts me when I exit the building. I’m unsteady on my feet. I’ve had way too much to drink. My muscles feel weak, my brain foggy. I’m teary too. I think of the way they looked at me back there, with their pity and blatant curiosity. All they really wanted were the grubby details. That’s all anybody really wants. I’ve become a form of entertainment. A real-life, walking-talking episode of Dateline. I try to recall a time when I wasn’t different, when I was just part of the crowd and not the object of such unwelcome attention. Will I ever get back to just being me? Just plain, old ordinary Amelia Kellaway?

  I stop and blink heavily at the street sign. Carter Avenue. I have gone the wrong way. I look around. It’s dark and isolated and I’m drunk. Focus, God damn it, you’re getting yourself into a mess.

  I turn back and try to locate Beth’s apartment but only get more confused in the warren of laneways.

  I start to panic. My limbs are lazy with alcohol and I will never be able to defend myself.

  I look around for a cab. I don’t usually take cabs because it means getting into cars with men I don’t know, but tonight I’m willing to make an exception. I just want to get home. But there’s not a cab in sight, even if I wanted one.

  It begins to rain and I keep walking. More of a staggering trudge than a walk because a strange type of numbness has inhabited every part of my body and given me leaden limbs. Then I remember it’s not just the alcohol that’s affecting me, it’s the tramadol mixed with the alcohol. I berate myself for being so careless.

  I go deeper into the neighborhood. Eyes watch from apartments. Dark doorways threaten to pounce.

  I lose my sense of direction and have to double back. I am getting so lost. I stop and look around, dumbfounded. The concrete jungle of Tribeca is turning green. I can smell moss, the earth, my own fear, the sticks and stones under my feet. The pine. I rest my hand on the side of the building and suck in air. The haunting sound of creaking pines. The whoosh above my head. The dart of a sparrow. The cry of a wolf. Him behind me, chasing. Sweating now, I can’t breathe.

  Someone touches my shoulder. “You okay?”

  With a jolt I’m brought back to reality. It’s a woman from the party.

  “You don’t look so good.”

  “Which way to the subway?”

  “Two blocks, turn right.”

  I hurry away.

  She shouts behind me, “Hey, why don’t you let me call you a cab!”

  But I keep going, until, mercifully, the subway sign appears up ahead.

  20

  Somehow, I make it to my usual spot in the park across from my apartment. I stand staring at the building. My vision is blurred and it’s hard to focus. I force myself to count the floors slowly. First. Second. Third. Fourth. Fifth. Sixth. Seventh. Eighth. I scan each balcony, then study my own.

  I repeat the process, beginning with the ground floor again, then up to fourth, my floor. I stop. Something’s wrong. The blind in the living room is different. One side of the slats are all the way down. The other side is open a crack like I left it. I try to think back to when I departed for Beth’s. Did I miss that side of the blinds? But I’m sure I performed the checking sequence three times. Or was that the time before? I try my very best to remember but my brain refuses to work.

  The lights go off in my apartment. Oh God. That’s bad. Then I tell myself, settle. It’s okay. Just the timer doing its job. But now, with the lights out inside the apartment, I can’t see a damn thing and I’m unable to check for any human-sized shadows or any movement back and forth.

  I think of something. I dig inside my bag for my wallet and phone. I find the business card and punch in the number.

  Ethan North’s voice fills the line.

  “Have you been in my apartment?” I say.

  “Amelia?”

  “Just answer me. Have you been here?”

  “No, I haven’t been anywhere near your place. What’s going on? Are you okay? You sound upset.”

  I start to cry. I can’t contain it. “Someone’s in there.”

  “What?”

  “Please…I can’t.” I choke on the words. “He’s in there.”

  “Who’s in there?”

  “Him…Rex…Oh God, I’m going to be sick.”

  “Where are you?”

  “At the park across the street.”

  “Stay there. I’m on my way.”

  21

  Less than twenty minutes later, I hear Ethan calling my name. I’m in the bushes, hiding. He calls my name again. I stand up. He sees me, and I catch the shocked look on his face. I want to crawl into a hole and never come out.

  “Jesus, Amelia,” he says when he reaches me. “You’re shaking like a leaf. What happened?”

  I can’t speak. I’m gul
ping air, sobbing like a frightened little girl.

  “Take a deep breath.”

  I try. It hurts.

  “It’s okay. We’ll stay here as long as you need.”

  I feel him beside me, his warmth, his goodness. I begin to calm down.

  “Can we please sit,” I splutter.

  “Sure.”

  He escorts me to the bench near the climbing bars and we sit.

  “Better?” he says.

  I nod.

  “You’ve been drinking,” he says. A matter of fact, no judgment. I’m ashamed anyway. It means he can smell it on me.

  “Drugs too?” he says.

  I shake my head no, then catch myself. “Prescription. Tramadol for my foot.”

  He glances at my building. “You come here to check your apartment?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re that afraid of him coming back?”

  I don’t answer. God, what must he think of me?

  “It’s a disorder,” I say, finally. “I’m getting help for it.”

  He looks up at the apartment, frowning. “And the blinds? They’re not the same way you left them?”

  “Every time I leave the apartment, I always make sure both blinds are lowered to the same height, with the slats slanted at a forty-five-degree angle. Every time. Without fail. I’ve never not done it.”

  He considers this for a moment.

  “But it’s possible, isn’t it?” he says. “That you made a mistake this one time?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t agree.”

  But I’m already having doubts. I’ve been so distracted with the job suspension, the blackouts, the empty envelope, the lack of sleep.

  “Did you have anything to drink before you went out?” he says.

  “No.”

  He gets to his feet. “I guess there’s only one way to find out.”

  I pull on his arm. “Wait. It’s not safe to go in there. Rex Hawkins is a very dangerous man.”

  Ethan shows me his Glock the waistband of his pants. “I’m not past a bit of danger myself.”

  He takes me to his car, a beat-up, aqua-colored Honda, and guides me into the passenger’s seat.

  “Lock the doors,” he says through the window.

  Then he turns and heads inside my building. I wait nervously. The clock on the dash is one hour too slow. 2:13 a.m. God, poor Ethan, I can’t believe I dragged him out of bed for this.

  I watch the clock. 2:20. 2:25. 2:30. Why is he taking so long? I tell myself to relax. He’s just being careful like I told him. It’s a good thing. 2:35. 2:40. I look at the building door. My stomach churns. He’s taking forever. 2:45. This isn’t right. It’s been way too long. The door to my building opens and I hold my breath. But it’s just Mr. Leibowitz, the Polish man from the second floor, taking his dachshund, Cindy, for a bathroom break.

  Where the hell is Ethan? I try calling his cell. No answer.

  Mr. Leibowitz passes by me after Cindy does her business. He gives me a look, but doesn’t say anything. He reaches our building and pauses on the steps, half-turning to eyeball the Honda as if he’s deciding whether to come over or not.

  The door opens behind him. It’s Ethan. I’ve never felt such relief.

  Mr. Leibowitz disappears inside and Ethan half-jogs to the Honda.

  “All clear,” he says.

  “You sure? You looked everywhere?”

  He pauses. “I think you made a mistake.”

  I burst into tears. “I’m sorry.”

  He touches my shoulder. “Hey, it’s okay. Let’s get you inside.”

  “Will you stay with me tonight?”

  He looks shocked.

  “I’m not sure it would be such a good idea,” he says.

  I feel like a complete idiot. I nod. “No, you’re right, God, I’m sorry. It’s too much to ask. You’ve done so much already.” I bite my lip, “It’s just that…well…I’m scared.”

  He falls silent. He glances over his shoulder and looks at my apartment, then turns back to me.

  He picks up my purse. “I’ll take the couch.”

  22

  I stir in the wee small hours. I’ve been dreaming about my dead father. I reach for the sound of his voice but can’t get it back. There’s a painful squeeze beneath my rib cage I haven’t felt for years. Groggy, I lift my head to look at the clock. 5:47 a.m. Last night returns in a flood. The party. The panic attack. Ethan North.

  I sit up. My head spins and I nearly vomit into my hand. I grab a fistful of blankets and sway there, on the edge of the abyss, praying for it to pass. Eventually it does, or at least enough so I can push aside my bed covers and get to my feet without falling over. My mouth feels like sandpaper. I need water.

  Edging slowly out of my bedroom, I stop dead in my tracks when I see the door to the spare room wide open. Ethan North is kneeling on the floor poring over my precious files.

  “What are you doing?”

  His head jerks up. “Amelia.”

  “Get out!”

  Ethan scrambles to his feet. “I was looking for the switchboard. The lights came on when I was sleeping on the couch.”

  My legs shake in anger. “Bullshit. You were snooping.”

  “No, Amelia, I wasn’t,” he says.

  “I know you’re lying because I always keep this door locked. The key is in a box next to my bed.”

  Ethan looks at me. “I don’t know what to say. It wasn’t locked.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  But even as I say it, I begin to doubt myself. Could it be another slip?

  Ethan turns to look at the wall. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  It’s all there for him to see. Photographs of the three murdered women. Photographs of the seventeen missing women. Shots of Rex Hawkins’s ranch and oil refinery compound, from when it was active, to its current abandoned state. The possible identikit images of what he may look like now, with or without hair, gray or black or blond, with mustache or full beard or goatee or sideburns, glasses or contacts. And all my Post-it note scribblings, recording observations, possible connections, questions, further avenues of inquiry.

  Ethan looks astounded. “All this work. It must have taken you forever.”

  I limp over and shove him toward the door.

  “Get out!”

  “Don’t be upset, Amelia. I just want to help.”

  I shove harder. “I don’t want your help. Get out of my home.”

  He doesn’t budge. “You think he’s done this before.”

  “Ethan, please,” I say, close to tears. “I’m not comfortable with this.”

  He takes me by the shoulders. “Amelia, I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what’s going on.”

  23

  He makes us tea and brings it back to the spare room. I remain standing, the mug hot in my hand. It’s disconcerting having him here in my space, the center of operations, the inner workings of my mind on display for him to see. He takes the seat at my desk.

  “I’m listening,” he says.

  “No one else believes me. Why should you?”

  “Try me.”

  I exhale. I wonder how much I should tell him, what I should leave out, what I should leave in. But Ethan’s no dummy and it’s all on the wall.

  “All right,” I say.

  I turn around and tap the first photo. A blue-eyed woman with red hair and a wide smile.

  “Shelly White, thirty-two. Shelly went missing after a day hike with her boyfriend along the Oregon-Washington border. Her boyfriend returned without her, and when she didn’t show up after four hours, he notified police, told them he and Shelly had a spat about his ex-girlfriend and she stormed off. No one believed him, of course. They questioned him for over eight hours. He insisted it was all true. Finally, police decided to go look for Shelly but there was no sign of her. Ten days later a hunter finds her body in a shallow grave. Strangled and sustained sexual assault. The boyfriend was charged, went on trial, got acquitted. There
was no evidence he had ever been involved at all.”

  I pause. My heart’s going a million miles an hour. I look at Ethan to see if he’s following.

  “Go on,” he says.

  I point to the second photo. Another blue-eyed woman, although this one has cropped brown hair and is kissing a dog, a black Lab with a red bandana tied around its neck.

  “Amanda Buckley, twenty-eight. Amanda liked to run the trails along the Oregon coast with her dog, Pip. Fit and athletic, she ran at least every couple of weeks. One Sunday in November she went on a run with Pip. When she didn’t return by sundown, her roommate put out an alert. Authorities conducted a three-day ground search within a fifty-mile radius and found no sign of the dog or Amanda. On the fourth day, a hiker saw Pip hanging from a tree, his mistress’s sports bra tied around his neck. One week goes by, then two, three, a month. Then a truck driver on a bathroom stop spots something off road on the Oregon Coast Road. It was Amanda’s body. Again, sexual assault, strangulation, shallow grave.”

  “But how could forensics tell after all that time?”

  I raise my hand to silence him. “I’ll get to that.”

  I unpin the third photo. Young, beautiful, deep green eyes and wavy blonde hair.

  “Olivia Wendell, nineteen, left California bound for a solo hike along the Oregon coast. She hitched most of the way. Truck drivers mostly, and a couple of families on their way north. According to Willis Smart, a seventy-year-old grandpa from Seattle, he dropped Olivia here.” I point to the photograph of the gas station pinned to the map. “The last person to see her was a clerk who sold her Little Debbie snack cakes.”

  I glance at the photograph and swallow. I smell pine and gasoline.

  Ethan stares at me. “Is that the place where he grabbed you?”

  He’s done his homework.

  “Yeah.”

  “You want to take a break?”

  I shake my head and drink some tea. I look at the photo of Olivia again.

  “Six weeks later they found Olivia’s body in a shallow, snow-covered grave, raped and strangled. Some snowmobilers ran right over her, sliced the top of her skull.”