Coming for You

by Deborah Rogers

  Ethan winces. “Jesus.”

  “Yeah, the autopsy photos are brutal.”

  He pauses. “And you think it’s him?”

  I turn away. “You don’t believe me.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “They were kept alive,” I look at him, “like me, for long periods, and taken from the same geographical location I was. Two women before me, one after, that I know of.”

  “What about those ones?” he says, nodding to the corkboard and the seventeen photographs of other women.

  “Missing. All around the same area. Within the last five to ten years. Similar physical appearance.”

  “A serial killer?”

  I catch it, the unmistakable look of pity, and I’m suddenly angry. “I’m not trying to convince you of anything, Ethan. You’re the one who asked me to walk you through this.”

  “Amelia, you know how easy it is to make everything fit. You’re a lawyer. You do it for a living.” He gestures to the wall. “That’s not evidence. It’s coincidence at best. I’m not sure I see a pattern here. Yes, these women were raped and strangled, but that’s not exactly unusual.”

  I cross my arms. “I didn’t expect you to understand.”

  “Isn’t this just you holding on, unable to let go? Isn’t this part of your disorder?”

  “You think I’m crazy?”

  “I’m not saying that. In your position I would probably be drawing the same conclusions. But that doesn’t mean those conclusions are correct. Amelia, don’t you see? You aren’t a neutral party here. There’s no way you can analyze the evidence impartially. It would be impossible for anyone in your position to do that.”

  I refuse to look at him. “I’d like you to leave.”

  “Oh, Amelia, come on.”

  “I’m serious, Ethan. Go now.”

  He stands. “If that’s what you want.”

  “It is.”

  He takes the mug of cold tea from my hands. “I’ll see myself out then.”

  I know I should thank him for helping me last night but I turn my back and crouch to pick up the files.

  “I could run some names if you like,” he says, hovering at the door. “I’ve got a buddy who works national missing persons cases.”

  “Don’t do me any favors.”

  “Are you always this belligerent?”

  I return the files to the desk and turn to face him.

  “I believe I asked you to leave.”

  He stares at me. “You should be rebuilding your life, putting the horror of what happened behind you.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “All this,” he says gesturing to the photos, “it’s heartbreaking, Amelia. You’re not doing yourself any favors.”

  “I don’t need your pity.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  He lets out a breath. “All right. Okay. I’m leaving.” He slips by me and then looks over his shoulder. “You know where to find me.”

  24

  It takes days for my anger to subside. I feel like I’ve exposed my soul to the world. How dare Ethan pry. How dare he judge. How dare he pick my thinking apart. I never asked for his opinion.

  He’s been around for three days straight to check up on me. But I’ve ignored his knocking, just like I’ve ignored his phone calls. I don’t want to talk to him. It’s childish I know, but part of me wants to punish him.

  Beth has called, too. To see why I’ve missed our sessions at the gym. But I can’t face anyone right now. I can’t stand their doubt, the look of pity on their faces, at me, in my sorry mental state.

  I study the wall over and over, trying to see what Ethan sees. Where he sees a bunch of unrelated crimes, I see a pattern. But could he be right? Is it simply all speculation? What he said about lawyers making up stories is true. It is my job to create workable theories of the case, to make assumptions to fill in gaps, and sometimes those assumptions are wrong.

  I think of John Liber and how many months it took me to work up the courage to share what I’d found with him. But as soon as the words were out of my mouth, I knew I had made a mistake. Doubt had clouded his face in an instant. Then he said, Kiddo, you’re chasing shadows here, and urged me to see Lorna. The implication was clear. He thought I was delusional, and for a while there I thought maybe he was right.

  At that point, I considered burying the whole thing. Then I discovered Olivia Wendell, so I went to the FBI instead. I showed them all the data I collated, systematically walked them through the times, dates, locations, similar fact pattern evidence. And unlike John Liber, they seemed interested and promised to make further inquiries. Only they didn’t. What they did was stop returning my calls. And now this latest defeat with Ethan…

  Olivia, Amanda, and Shelly stare out at me from the wall. Happy in their respective elements. Completely unaware of the tragedy about to befall them. Sheltered, just as I had been. Only I wasn’t like them because I survived.

  And the missing women, seventeen now, but growing. These women didn’t simply disappear into a black hole. No, they fit his type, his preferred locations, his MO. It is chilling.

  It’s him, I know it is. These murders and disappearances have his hands all over them. I just need that elusive strand of evidence to tie it all together.

  I study the photograph of Olivia. The cause for most concern because she came eighteen months after the incident with me. It proved he was still at it. How many more Olivias are out there? How many more Olivias could be prevented if he was caught?

  My half foot burns. I need to bathe it in saline and reapply the antiseptic cream. But I reach for my laptop instead. The foot can wait. I open up my web browser and start searching again.

  25

  At 4 a.m. I wake up in the middle of the spare room floor with someone standing over me. I scream and scramble backward. But when I look again, I see that no one is there. I take a moment to get my bearings. My laptop is open, a satellite image of the Oregon coast on the screen. It comes back to me. I’d spent most of the night on the net trawling for leads and more possible victims. But hours of searching newspaper archives, court records, missing person forums came up empty.

  Doubt seeps in. Maybe Ethan is right. Maybe everything is a figment of my imagination. Maybe I’m descending deeper into some delusional state.

  It could be a repeat of the tulips and pine cones. Everyone thought I was sending them to myself. Oh, they never said anything overtly but the suggestion was always there. The police. My mother. John Liber. I remember raising it with Lorna during a session. She had sat there impassively so I couldn’t be sure what her view was.

  “What do you think about that?” she had said.

  “What do I think? I think it’s ridiculous. Why the hell would I send things to myself? Besides, I would know if I’d done something like that. I would remember.” I looked at her then. “Wouldn’t I?”

  She’d shrugged. “Not necessarily. It could be some form of stress-induced automatism.”

  “Do you think I did it, Lorna?”

  I had expected to get the usual noncommittal stance from her but instead she said—

  “To tell you the truth, Amelia, I simply don’t know.”

  I limp to the bathroom and examine my foot. It’s a mess. I spend the next hour cleaning it, gingerly bathing it in warm saline solution, extracting the gunk a little at a time, applying copious amounts of antiseptic cream. I bind it tightly in a clean bandage to prevent the swelling from getting worse.

  Then I go to bed to see if I can get some sleep before daybreak.

  26

  I’m asleep when a persistent knock on the front door wakes me. I try to ignore it. But whoever it is, they’re not giving up. Then a text. From Ethan.

  Please come to the door. I need to make sure you’re OK. I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling. God. Sighing deeply, I drag myself from my nest of blankets and trudge through the apartment
to the front door.

  “Go away, Ethan.” My voice is hoarse because I haven’t spoken in days.

  “I’m not leaving until you open up.”

  “I’m sorry you wasted a trip.”

  “You’re being stubborn.”

  I soften a little. My mother used to call me stubborn when I was a little kid.

  “Please, Amelia.”

  I give in and open the door. He stares at me, stunned. I must look rough but I’m too drained to care.

  He holds up a bag. “I brought oranges.”

  I’m touched. “You didn’t need to do that.”

  “I wanted to.” He slips past me and places the fruit on the counter. “There’s a good farmer’s market in Park Slope. I sometimes go there on the weekend to get my pop some fresh fruit and vegetables. Makes a change from all the microwave slop they feed him in the home.” Ethan glances around my gloomy apartment, chin nods toward the lowered blinds. “It’s a sunny day out there, you know.”

  “Is it?” I say, dropping to the sofa.

  He frowns. “Your limp is worse than before. Is your foot sore? Need me to drive you to a doctor?”

  “I’m not an invalid.”

  He plunges his hands in his pockets. “Of course you’re not. Sorry.” He pauses, looking awkward. “Actually, Amelia, I was hoping we could talk about something.”

  “Oh?”

  “Rex Hawkins.”

  I shudder. Even the name makes me want to be sick.

  “I think you know what I’m going to say,” continues Ethan.

  I turn away.

  “Amelia?” he presses.

  “I don’t know what you think you’ve found out but I’m sure it isn’t accurate.”

  He takes the seat opposite, rests his forearms on his knees, knits his hands together.

  “After you walked me through your theory, I made some inquiries and spoke to the FBI.” He watches me carefully. “They found Rex Hawkins’s body two and a half years ago. But you know that already, don’t you?”

  There it is again. Doubt. Pity. Kindness. All rolled into one sweet package.

  I shrug. “Even the FBI makes mistakes.”

  It sounds hollow and I wish I could do better.

  He shakes his head in disbelief. “You can’t honestly believe that. There’s DNA. It’s incontrovertible. Rex Hawkins is dead.”

  I lean back. “He isn’t dead.”

  Ethan raises his eyebrows. “He’s never been seen or heard from since. The women you’ve identified in your war room are someone else’s victims, not his.”

  I shake my head. “I would know if he was dead. I would feel it.”

  “But, Amelia, don’t you see?” his tone softening. “There’s no need for you to worry about him anymore. All this crazy checking is completely unnecessary. You can let it go now. Get on with your life. You’re a free woman.”

  “Crazy?”

  “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  I’m so angry, I can barely speak. “Don’t interfere.”

  He holds his hands up and stands. “I know, I know. Get out. Leave. I don’t need help from anyone. Especially you, Ethan.”

  We stare at each other for a moment.

  “You deserve better than this.”

  His voice is soft, like the click of the door behind him.

  27

  When Ethan’s gone, I sit in the quiet. Thinking and not thinking. I think of Thanksgiving the previous year when my family gathered at Mom’s for Thanksgiving dinner in upstate New York. My mother needed a bowl for the green beans and had asked me to retrieve Nana May’s antique Asprey crystal bowl from the cedar chest in her bedroom. That’s when I found the scrapbook with the newspaper clippings. Precisely cut and meticulously glued down on blotting paper, my sorry saga recorded for prosperity. From the first report of my rescue, to a catalog of my injuries, to a telescopic shot of me leaving the hospital in a wheelchair.

  As I sat on my mother’s bed leafing through the scrapbook, I realized how sheltered I had been. I had never seen the reports about myself. Those first few weeks after my return were a blur of surgeries and therapy. The protective circle of people who cared for me had sheltered me from the publicity and allowed me to recover.

  As I looked through the scrapbook, it became clear that my miserable story had been hijacked. Rather than a story of survival, it become an archaic warning tale about what can go wrong when a woman strays too far from home. That made me sick. The last thing I wanted was to discourage young women from embarking on adventure and experiencing personal growth.

  When I got to the final page, I saw a clipping about Matthew, my first love, the man I thought I would marry. Some reporter had tried to bait him into commenting on my condition as he left the hospital. There was a shot of him, in mirrored aviators, sliding into his Valencia Orange BMW Roadster. The photo reawakened a painful memory of Matthew’s visit to the hospital and his inability to look me in the eye. I know he felt responsible. He was supposed to come with me on the trek but backed out at the last minute.

  I never saw him again after the hospital visit. He moved to California to work for a commercial firm there, married then divorced a year later. Not that I blame him for leaving me. Who would want a cripple with an ugly half foot and a hearty dose of PTSD?

  I’m not sure why my mother saved the clippings. I never asked. I simply returned the scrapbook to its place and retrieved Nana May’s pretty Asprey crystal bowl and we ate our green beans, along with the rest of dinner.

  I get to my feet and nearly fall down. A searing pain grips my useless, mutilated foot. Wow. It’s so bad I clutch the edge of the sofa to catch my breath. I inhale and exhale. Three times. Then once more.

  I shuffle to the counter, rifle through my purse for some tramadol, and take two with a glass of water. Within thirty minutes, my foot feels a whole lot better, good enough to be able to hobble to the spare room.

  I stare at the faces of the murdered and missing women, my Post-it notes, the identikit images. All the years of work. All the thinking, the putting together, the scenarios I have built up in my mind. I stare at the photo of Rex Hawkins. I go in close. Those friendly blue eyes. The lips that formed such easy lies. The hands that nearly choked the life out of me. I can almost smell the Tide on his freshly laundered shirt.

  Ethan is right. This isn’t real evidence. My thinking has become distorted. I am distorted. Rex Hawkins is dead.

  Snatching fistfuls from the wall, I tear it all down, every last bit, until everything is just garbage under my feet. Breathing hard, I stand looking at the empty wall. Then I put my head in my hands and cry.

  *

  I don’t leave my bed for four days. I exist in a semi-conscious state. Walking a tightrope between wakefulness and sleep. Gambling with heavy doses of tramadol to quiet the pain in my foot.

  Nightmares stalk me. I am lost in the forest, surrounded by wolves. There is the dreadful weight of dirt on my chest. He is chasing me, gaining fast, shouting my name.

  When sleep refuses to come, I lie on my back and stare into darkness. Thoughts pass through me like a dirty wind. Sounds, too, seep through the timber and plaster. Fragments of everyday life. Murmurs. Voices raised in a fight. The groan of pipes. The smell of cooking food.

  All the while, I lie here, the involuntary eavesdropper, lost in a black hole of time. The better part of myself urges me to get up, call Lorna, my mother, anyone. Let some light in. Move. But the misery is stronger. It tells me I might be better off dead.

  On the fourth day the tramadol runs out. The pain in my foot is unbearable. I’m sure it’s infected. Heat is rising up my ankle and I have to get medicine. There’s no avoiding it.

  I leave the cradle of my bed and hunt the apartment for a prescription from the doctor I saved some time ago. I find it buried in a drawer beneath a pile of utility bills.

  I glance down at the clothes I haven’t changed in days. I should shower and put on some fresh ones, look less like a dope fiend. Instea
d, I finger-comb my hair, pull on a coat, and leave.

  Thankfully, the drug store is only at the end of my street. Even so, it’s hard going. I take it slow, biting back pain, my scrawny, white-knuckled hand strangling my trembling cane.

  By the time I step inside the drug store, I’m sweating profusely. I pause next to a display of Johnson’s baby powder and toilet paper to catch my breath. The dank box of a store is cramped and disorganized, with products displayed haphazardly next to each another. Diapers and window cleaner. Cosmetics and trash bags. Prepaid mobile cards and soy-flavored rice cakes. Fluorescent strip-lighting and water-stained ceiling panels only add to the gloom.

  The pharmacy is located at the back of the store so I maneuver my way through narrow rows cluttered with all manner of items. Food. Sunglasses. Toothbrushes. Preschooler toys.

  I pass by a construction worker studying the ingredients list on a tube of Bengay, humming to a Tears for Fears song playing through the scratchy store speakers.

  I dig in my pocket for the prescription and place it on the counter.

  “Can you fill this, please.”

  The pharmacist is a mid-thirties Korean-American man. Andy Cho, according to the name badge. A bit of a trendsetter by the looks of his over-styled hair and the checked salmon-pink shirt under his white pharmacist coat.

  “It’ll be ready in ten minutes or so, ma’am,” says the smiling Andy Cho.

  Ten minutes? I can’t wait that long. I need pain relief now. I consider telling him it’s urgent but decide that’ll make him think I’m some sort of junkie, so I wait patiently by a carousel display of insoles and corn pads. Fitting, I think, given the current state of my foot. I wipe my face with the cuff of my coat. God, I’m so hot. And thirsty. I should go get a bottle of water but I don’t have the energy.

  A woman in a blue parka perusing a display of batteries one aisle over keeps checking me out. No doubt I look as bad as I feel. I pick up a magazine, bury my face in it, try to focus on an article about the latest advance in bio-mechanics. My vision blurs. I glance at the counter. I’m not sure how much longer I can hang on. Everything hurts. I bite my cheek to stop myself from yelling out.