by Cole Baxter
“That’s good. Now, how big is the space? Walk around and try to get a sense of it.”
I took a cautious step forward, my hands outstretched. I took a few steps until I hit a wall.
“I don’t know,” I said frantically. “I don’t know how to get around.”
“Place your right hand on the wall,” Gloria said gently. “Walk alongside the wall.”
I did as she said, making turns around the maze. I found a few familiar dead ends, then returned to what I believed was my starting point.
“I’m not great with measurements,” I said.
“Compare it to something. Is it bigger or smaller than a football field?”
“Maybe a little bigger,” I guessed. “But if it is, it’s not by much.”
“That’s good. That’s very good,” she said, encouraging me. “Now, who do you think could build a maze like this?”
I ran my hands over the stone walls. “Someone who has a mind for design,” I concluded. “He is strong enough to lift the heavy bricks and stones by himself. He likes to be alone.”
“Why?” she asked.
I didn’t have an immediate answer for her. I had a strong suspicion the guy was a loner freak, but I couldn’t come up with the evidence to support it.
“I don’t know,” I said, my voice falling.
“That’s fine,” she said. “We can come back to it. What does his voice sound like when he talks to you?”
“It’s deep and angry,” I said quickly. Even my conscious self remembered that.
“What kinds of things does he say to you?”
I squeezed my eyes shut even tighter. I heard the words, but they all came through in my voice.
“He tells me that I’m pretty and that I belong to him. I ask if I can leave and he just laughs at me. He doesn’t care if I cry. He thinks it’s a fun game. If I don’t do what he wants, he gets angry and calls me bad names. He says I’m a slut who needs to be taught a lesson.”
“How does he teach you a lesson?” she asked.
My breathing became more fast and shallow. “He takes my clothes off and touches me. Sometimes, he grabs my hand and makes me touch him. His skin is always hot and sweaty. He also forces himself on me. I cry and scream because it hurts, and I can’t breathe.”
“You’re being very brave,” the therapist said. “I want you to take a step back and breathe for a moment. “You’re doing a great job.”
With her guidance, I was able to quiet my mind and slow my breathing down to the point where I felt like I was in a dream again.
“Annabeth, I’m going to ask you to do one more thing before we’re done here,” she said. “I want you to walk around until you find him.”
“No,” I said almost reflexively. “I can’t.”
“I want you to try,” she persisted. “Remember, he can’t hurt you. He is not allowed to touch you or talk to you. He cannot see you. He cannot harm you in any way. Find him.”
“Okay,” I said breathily as I continued through the maze. Suddenly, I filled with dread as the familiar scent of body odor flooded my nostrils. “He’s here,” I cried.
“Good work,” she said. “Now, describe what he looks like to me.”
I stared straight in front of me, but I couldn’t see much.
“It’s too dark,” I whimpered.
“Turn on the light,” she said simply.
Suddenly, we were standing beneath harsh fluorescent lighting. He towered over me, his heavy breathing louder than my own.
“Can you describe him?” the therapist asked.
“He’s big—taller than me. He has broad shoulders and a gut,” I said, my voice wavering. “Yeah, he’s kind of overweight. Like the size of my brother, but fatter.”
“Good. What else can you tell me about him?”
I focused hard. “He has big callused hands.”
“He must work with his hands a lot.”
“That’s right,” I said. “I hate how they scratch me when he touches me. There’s dirt under his fingernails.”
“What else? Look toward his face.”
I looked up, but I was having a hard time distinguishing any facial features.
“His hair is messy,” I concluded. “It’s balding a bit in front and it’s always greasy when I see him. It’s the color of Gregory’s hair, but kind of different. I don’t know how to describe it.”
“We can call it orange or red,” she suggested. “Does he have facial hair?”
I didn’t so much see it as I felt it across my face when he tried to kiss me. “Scratchy stubble,” I answered. “It hurt.”
“Now, I know that it can be hard to describe facial features, but I’ll try to talk you through it. What can you tell me about his face?” Dr. Andrews asked gently.
I wasn’t sure how to respond. When I looked at the figure in front of me, he was faceless. It was like pixilation censoring out something too obscene for my eyes to see.
“I can’t see his face,” I said, feeling exhausted. “It’s just not there. He doesn’t want me to see it.”
“Why not?” she asked curiously.
“Because it’s his biggest secret,” I replied, astonished by the words that were coming out of my mouth. I felt like I was listening to another person speak about what was going on in my head. “If I saw his face, then I would know who he was. I could never love him if I knew his secret. He needs me to love him. I know that I never will.”
I took a few deep breaths, but the face was still as blurry as it had always been.
“Is it getting any clearer?”
“No,” I mumbled. “I can smell his breath now. It smells like stale coffee. He used to talk so close to my face.”
“Focus on the eyes. What color do you see? Does he wear glasses?”
I tried to stare him in the eyes, but the picture wasn’t any clearer. “I don’t think I’ve ever looked at his eyes. If it wasn’t dark, I was looking down. I didn’t want to look at him.”
“That’s completely understandable. Is there anything else you can tell me about him?”
I searched him over, but there was nothing left to be said that I hadn’t already described. My brain felt like mush and there was nothing more I could do. I was so close to finally seeing his face, but there was something stopping me. I wanted to identify him, but I just couldn’t.
“I can’t do it,” I whimpered, feeling broken.
“That’s okay. If it’s all right with you, I’m going to bring you out of it. Are you ready?”
“Yes,” I cried.
“This time, you’re going to go up the steps. With each step, you’re going to feel more awake, more connected to the present. With each breath, congratulate yourself for working so hard and doing such a good job. When you reach the top, I want you to feel alive and refreshed.”
I listened to the therapist count from one to ten, all the while pulling myself out of the dark maze. By the time I reached the top of the imaginary stairs, my eyes were open. I sat up and looked toward the floor.
“How do you feel?” she asked.
“Like I have unfinished business,” I replied, feeling confused. “Why can’t I see his face?”
“It’s a process,” she answered. “We can keep working on it if you wish.”
“I know him, though,” I said. “I feel like I know him, anyway. I’ve spent enough time in that maze with him that I should be able to tell you much more. For some reason, I just can’t do it. It’s like all the answers are on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t spit them out.”
“Don’t be hard on yourself about it,” Dr. Andrews said. “You’ve provided me with a lot of information. If you’d like, I’d be happy to make a copy of my notes and give it to you. The police might be able to make use of it.”
“Actually, that would be nice,” I replied, thinking about how impressed Detective Reyes would be with me if I had a list of facts for him.
“I’ll be right back,” she said, rushing out of the room. I got
up and slipped my shoes on as I walked around the small room. I knew that it would only be a matter of time before I could identify my stalker, but I worried that by the time my brain cooperated, it would be too late. My son didn’t have a lot of time, and for all I knew, my stalker could snatch me off the street at any point.
Dr. Andrews returned with a printed copy of her handwritten notes. As I read them over, I was surprised by what they said.
“I really said these things?” I asked.
“I wrote it down verbatim,” she answered. “I know it can seem kind of foreign to you, but the subconscious memory is a strange place.”
“Can I accept this as truth?” I asked, holding up the paper.
“I think so. If you’re asking if it would hold up in a court of law, I’m not certain about that. But I have reason to think that what you saw is accurate. Anyway, it doesn’t hurt to have the police take that into consideration.”
“Can we do this again?” I asked. “I think I’m making some serious progress.”
“Let’s try again early next week,” Gloria said, checking her schedule. “Why don’t you come in first thing on Monday morning? Until then, get lots of rest and use some of the coping mechanisms we talked about in our previous sessions.”
“Okay,” I replied, feeling as if I had been up all night. “Thank you for your help. I’ll see you Monday.”
Though I left the office with documentation that I was able to conjure up a memory of my stalker, I still felt like something big was missing. It was more than just a few facial features, too. There was a big piece to the puzzle that I was blanking on. Unfortunately, I didn’t know where to begin when it came to figuring it out. I was putting together a puzzle with missing pieces and no picture to go on, and time was running out.
Chapter Twenty-Two
After an attempt at a nap, I got up to find numerous missed calls from my mom. As it turned out, Tom had developed pneumonia during his hospital stay and had been sent back to the ICU. As I drove to the hospital to meet my mom, I pounded at my steering wheel with rage. If Tom died because of my stalker, I would never forgive myself. My mom would never forgive me either.
The receptionist at the front desk handed me a visitor’s badge the second I came through. “Room 443,” she said, clearly aware of who I was.
“Thanks,” I said hurriedly as I ran up the stairs toward his room.
When I got there, my mom was standing outside his room, looking through the window. She clutched wadded tissues in her hand as she sniffled.
“Mom?” I said cautiously, ready to hear the worst.
“I was told that he’s going to be okay, but it doesn’t always look that way,” she cried. “It’s scary to see him connected to so many tubes and wires.”
“I know,” I replied, feeling my stomach drop. He looked so weak and frail—nothing like the Tom I knew. “How did this happen? He looked fine yesterday.”
“These things just happen,” my mom sighed. “He had a knife rip through his body. It does unspeakable damage. It’s not like you’re neatly punching a hole though a body—it completely rips apart tissue and breaks bone. When your body is already weak, it’s easy for infection to set in. Unfortunately, it can be really dangerous, especially when he already has a hole in his back.”
“But he’s going to recover, right?” I asked.
“That’s what they tell me. There are no certainties when it comes to these matters,” she said, staring into Tom’s room. “I’ve seen it before—one day, you’re getting ready to discharge someone, and the next day, they’re in the morgue.”
“Don’t be so morbid,” I scolded her. “He’s an otherwise healthy guy. He’ll pull through.”
“I think so too,” she said. “It’s just never good to be in the ICU. It’s never good.”
“Well, can I at least go inside and talk to him?” I asked. “Maybe it’ll help if he knows that we’re here for him.”
“We’re not allowed in,” she said. “His immune system is too fragile right now. They’re pumping him full of antibiotics and draining the fluid from his lungs. If we were allowed in, I’d be right by his side, just like I was after you were found. Do you remember that?”
I gritted my teeth. I didn’t remember.
“No, of course not,” she said dismissively. “If you need to be somewhere, you can go. I’ll tell him you stopped by when I’m allowed to go in.”
“I don’t need to be anywhere,” I lied, pushing the paper from Dr. Andrews’s office deeper into my pocket.
“Well, there’s not much you can do here now. I just wanted you to know what was going on with Tom. I can call you if there are changes in his condition.”
“Okay,” I replied softly, aware that I was not wanted nor needed. “I think I’ll head over to the police station and see if there are any leads. I’ll be back later.”
My mom didn’t respond but continued to look at my brother, her hand clutched to her chest. I blew Tom a kiss and took off down the hall to escape the hospital as quickly as possible. The winding halls of the hospital often felt like the subterranean maze, though this one was too sterile.
I marched into the police station, blowing right past the guy working the front desk. They also knew who I was. I was becoming a regular in places where I didn’t want to be a regular. In the past week, I had been to my therapist, the hospital, and the police station more times than I could count.
“Annabeth,” Gabriel exclaimed, surprise in his voice. “I didn’t know you were coming. Is something wrong?”
“No more than usual,” I replied. “Can we talk?”
“Sure,” he said, looking around the precinct. “Just give me a minute. I have to file a few reports and then I’ll be right with you. Can I get you something to eat or drink? What do you want?”
“Oh, whatever you’re having,” I said, waving my hand as if to say that I didn’t want him to put any effort into it.
“Okay. You can sit in here, and I’ll be right back.”
He ushered me into a small office, not much larger than a walk-in closet. I looked around, taking advantage of the time alone. When we spoke before, it was always in an interrogation room. I crept around the room and found framed photos on a shelf. Two of them were school photos of his young daughters. They were absolutely gorgeous and looked just like Gabriel. The next one was a family photo that made my heart sink. The family of four posed in front of massive pumpkins at a pumpkin patch. It looked like a Christmas card photo. Gabriel’s wife was stunningly beautiful and had a dazzling smile. The happiness they exuded in the photo was far greater than anything I could remember. I had amazing moments with Gregory Jr., but they were always bittersweet without my late husband.
From looking at the pictures, I assumed that Gabriel was still madly in love with his deceased wife. There was no way you could stop loving a woman who looked like that. She had died in the last few years, too, so the wounds were still fresh. Someone like Gabriel could probably get any woman he wanted. He would be okay in the end.
“Hey, sorry about that,” he said, poking his head into the doorway. I jumped, worried that he caught me snooping. “I’m all yours. I grabbed a few bagels and coffees from the break room. Will you have one with me?”
I sat down across from his desk and scooted my chair a little closer. I still didn’t have much of an appetite, but when he put it that way, I couldn’t refuse. I grabbed a plain bagel, split it in half, and smeared a thick layer of strawberry cream cheese on each face. I only took small sips of coffee in an attempt to keep my anxiety at bay. I’d have to call Dr. Andrews’s office and ask the receptionist what kind of tea he made.
“So, you said that you have something to tell me,” he said as he chewed. “Is it good news? I could use some good news.”
“I could too,” I replied. “I’m not sure how to classify it. I’ve been seeing my therapist lately, and we decided to give hypnotherapy a try. It’s been scary, but I think I’ve regained some memories.”
“I’m not exactly sure, but I think that she hypnotizes me and guides me through questions about my past. When I imagine certain memories, it feels like I’m actually there.”
“And you’re remembering things you didn’t previously remember?”
“I think so,” I said with less confidence than I had when I left the sessions. “I don’t remember a lot about what I say or see when I’m out, but my therapist has been keeping detailed notes. I thought I’d show them to you. In the first session, I only remembered the brown car. In the second one, I tried to remember the maze and my stalker.”
“Yeah, that sounds really useful,” he said, taking the papers from me. He scanned them for a moment, the tip of his tongue sitting between his front teeth as he read.
“Do you know what?” he said, a smile forming on his face. “We have a sketch artist we use with these kinds of cases. I can send him this description and see what he comes up with.”
“It’s not a very good description,” I said sheepishly.
“It’s good enough,” he replied. “It’s also important for the profile to know that the guy likely built the maze himself. Do you have reason to believe that this is factual?”
I shrugged. “It’s all I have. I understand if you don’t believe me. I know that I’m not a very credible witness.”
“No, you’re providing a lot of good information. I just wish we could do more.”
He looked toward the desk, as if he were afraid to make eye contact with me. My stomach churned.
“What do you mean?” I asked, my voice wavering.
“I’m afraid I have some bad news for you,” he sighed. He looked distraught, which only sank my hopes even lower. “It’s Morrie.”
“He’s dead,” I interjected. “He shouldn’t be a problem. Besides, I’m almost a hundred percent sure he’s not my stalker. That guy couldn’t build a maze if he tried. And I’m fairly certain my attacker has pale skin and light hair. It’s not Morrie. I get why you wanted to pin a pedophile, but I don’t think he has anything to do with this.”