by Robyn Carr
Again she shook her head. Then she said, “Not that I can recall.”
They asked her to look at a video. It was footage from a convenience store gas pump. A man got out of the car, put gas in the tank, smiled and then laughed at something. He got back into the car on the driver’s side. The image was blurry but she knew it was him.
She was clearly sitting in the passenger seat. Of her car. The license plate was visible on the tape as the car pulled out.
“That’s him. That’s my car. I don’t remember that. I don’t remember a gas station. I don’t remember stopping for gas. I only remember brief snatches. He must have taken me out of the bar to my car.”
“Describe the day and night as you remember it,” the detective instructed.
She went through it, moment by moment, explaining again and again that she was moving in and out of consciousness, that he had abducted her, he had stolen her car, somehow got her in it, took her back to her house, to her garage where he assaulted her.
“And when you hit the victim...?”
“I didn’t know what happened. We hit something. I remember I got agitated and Derek looked to see what we hit. I think he hit me or I passed out again. I never saw anyone.”
“Your car was damaged...the front right bumper and side.”
“Could’ve been a rock or a branch or a—Look, I didn’t know what it was. And even if I had, I was in no condition to help.”
They made her retrace her movements for the past year and five months over and over again. Her fleeing to Iowa, her entry into rehab, her work history, her move to Colorado. Several times Cal suggested she didn’t have to answer questions that didn’t pertain to the accident for which she was being questioned. Almost every time she answered anyway, trying to give them what they wanted, what they needed.
They brought lunch, right when she was in the thick of it and she couldn’t have eaten if her life depended on it.
“I’m about to end this interview,” Cal said. “Let’s move this along quickly.”
“It’s probably in the best interest of your client to be patient for these questions and get it all behind her.”
“The client is also my sister,” he said, scowling.
“It’s okay,” she said. “I need it to be over. If it can ever be over.”
“I put a call in to the sexual assault unit,” the detective said. “We have to establish whether there was another crime.”
She looked through a bunch of pictures and bingo, there he was. She identified him and they told her he had a record; quite a few felony arrests for everything from robbery to battery to sexual assault.
She told them he had given her the creeps but he didn’t fit her image of a career criminal; he was so clean-cut, so preppy. After she’d spent a little time with him she knew he was wrong. She never anticipated how wrong.
The sexual assault sergeant introduced himself simply as Charles. He asked her to explain how she knew he was a deviant or maybe just explain why she was dead set against seeing him. So she told them about that one night he was invited inside, how enraged he was with his dysfunction, how difficult it was for him to successfully complete intercourse.
As far as they could determine, his name was actually Craig Dixon. They showed her an artist’s rendering too, a pencil sketch. “That’s him,” she said. “Why do you have this?”
“He’s committed other crimes. He has other victims.”
They asked her seven times where he was. Seven times she told them she had no idea, that she ran from him, that she feared him.
Charles was incredibly tall with giant feet that made her think of Goofy, the Disney character. He folded his legs uncomfortably under the desk. Detective Lundquist left the office briefly, while the remaining two detectives questioned her. “You know it’s best if we locate him and bring him in,” Charles said.
“If I could help you do that, I would. But I don’t know where he is.”
“Is it possible you got drunk and you and your boyfriend ran down a cyclist and left him by the side of the road, critically injured?”
“No,” she said much more calmly than she felt. “He’s not nor was he ever my boyfriend. I’m telling you, I didn’t even know where he lived. We had one official date and he was stalking me after that. I’m afraid of him.”
“Have you seen him at all since that night?”
“I think I see him a lot, but it’s just my nerves. It always turns out it’s not him. It must not be him—he hasn’t bothered me at all. Why would he come all the way to Colorado if he didn’t intend to hurt me again?”
“Wait? Colorado?”
“I thought I saw him in a mall in Colorado Springs, but he didn’t see me. He finally turned and I don’t think it was him. His nose was too big.”
The sergeant fished out a more mug shot—profile and forward—that was newer than the photo and the pencil sketch.
“Oh God,” she said.
“Is this the man you saw in Colorado?”
“Maybe it was. He was kind of far away. But I followed him for a while because I thought it might be him and I had to know. But I was on crutches. I had a sprained ankle. I wasn’t moving very fast.”
“He didn’t approach you?”
“No. And he was gone before I could verify it was him. The story of my life—seeing my nightmare over and over and never being sure.”
“Did he say anything that night? Anything memorable?”
“I asked him what he hit while we were driving and he said, ‘Don’t worry about it. I wasn’t driving. You were driving.’ But I wasn’t. I couldn’t have driven if my life depended on it.”
“I believe that’s enough for today,” Cal said. “Ms. Jones is not under arrest and doesn’t have to—”
“We could arrest you for obstruction,” the detective said. “You were with him in the car and it was 1.7 miles from that gas station that the cyclist was hit. He might’ve died but for the fortuitous presence of a passerby with medical knowledge who came along less than a minute later.”
“Obstruction from a girl who was drugged and raped? That will never get by a judge,” Cal said. “Her head is clearly lolling on the tape and he gets behind the wheel.”
“I have medical records,” she said. “I didn’t report it to the police but I went to a clinic. I was bruised and injured and afraid of disease. I had showered but they did a rape exam anyway. Since the police weren’t involved they didn’t have evidence. But they have records. It was the Macmillan Women’s Clinic.”
The detective looked at his watch. “We’ve been at this all day and it just occurred to you to mention medical records?”
“I talked all day! I answered all your humiliating questions in front of my brother!” She looked at him. “Cal, I’ve had enough.”
“We’re done here. We won’t be answering any more questions without a warrant. You pretty much squeezed her dry. If you have any more questions, we’ll be in Colorado.”
He took Sierra’s elbow to lead her away.
“Wait a minute,” she said. “My turn. You’ve been looking for him? For the hit-and-run?”
“Among other things,” the detective said. “You’re going to have to be very cautious, ma’am. Craig Dixon is a dangerous man.”
“Why are you looking for him?”
“Rape, for one thing.”
“But I don’t want to testify against him! He terrifies me! And if for any reason he isn’t put in prison...”
“Let’s worry about that when we have him in custody,” the sergeant said. “For now, my advice is, caution.”
“Well, he was certainly right about one thing,” she said. “I’ll never forget him.”
The detectives sat stone-still and silent. The sergeant from the sexual assault unit leaned forward. �
�What were his exact words, please?”
“He said, ‘You’ll never forget me now.’ And then he walked away.”
The men looked at each other. “That’s a wrap. You can go. Make sure we’re able to reach one or both of you. If you change cell numbers, please contact us. Thank you for your cooperation.”
Cal led her away. “You all right?”
She shrugged. “A little beat up. Why were they so hard on me if they know he’s the bad guy?”
“They had to be convinced you weren’t a co-suspect in that hit-and-run but, more important, they want to know if you can lead them to their suspect.”
“Lead them! Don’t they understand I’d be running in the other direction?”
“I’m pretty sure they understand that now. I wondered why this much energy was being spent trying to find him for a hit-and-run when the victim has made a full recovery. Sierra, the man has obviously raped other women. They connected the dots—found his face on that hit-and-run film. They might never have found him if there hadn’t been a felony hit-and-run. That tape would never have been viewed in the first place if there hadn’t been a crime and investigation. That’s why they were looking for you. They tied your car to their suspect. I have a feeling, based on what you’ve said and their questions, they’re looking for a predator. A serial rapist. Or worse.”
She couldn’t speak. Finally she said, “Won’t the other victims bring him to justice?” she asked.
“And what if they can’t?” Cal said.
“Can’t?” she repeated shakily. “Dear God.”
The privilege of a lifetime is to become
who you truly are.
—C. G. Jung
Chapter 17
SIERRA WAS JUST too tired to call Connie. She wasn’t about to explain all this over the phone. But she saw his texts and he’d added another one with a picture of him with Molly. She finally wrote back, I miss you guys, too. Sorry, I’m exhausted and hungry. Tomorrow will be better.
He must have been sitting on the phone. He texted back instantly. If you needed me, I would come.
The sweetest man alive, she thought. She didn’t think she deserved him. She texted back, I’m okay. I’ll be in touch tomorrow. Thank you for being so wonderful.
They went out for dinner in the hotel, then to bed. She slept incredibly well for someone who had just surmised that the only way this monster would go to jail was if she faced him and accused him. And she was sure she wouldn’t be able to.
But God was watching out for her. She didn’t even dream.
The next morning they picked up a copy of her medical records. Cal called Charles—Sergeant Tilden—who had interviewed them and arranged to have the mug shot of Craig Dixon emailed to him. Then they headed for the airport. Cal changed their flight, but they weren’t going right home. They flew to Des Moines and rented a car, making the two-hour drive to the little farming village where Marissa and Jed Jones lived. Given their parents were overly sensitive to drop-in guests, even their own children, Cal called and told his mother that he and Sierra were passing through and wanted to stop by and say hello in the morning.
“Say hello?” Sierra asked with a laugh. “Is that what we’re doing?”
“We’ll say hello, ask if they need anything, ask Marissa if the man whose picture I have on my cell phone was the one who came to the farm looking for you.”
“You think she’ll even remember? It was over a year ago!”
“I’d be satisfied with her best guess.”
Sierra held her breath. She didn’t even want to see the farm. It was the farm where she hid for three months prior to rehab; it was the farm where she had started to fear she was crazy like her father. She didn’t want to know if the bad man had followed her there.
“I’m not for certain,” Marissa said. “But I think that’s him. He was wearing such nice clothes and he said he worked for a special department of some kind. I wish I could remember. But it didn’t matter because I just said you hadn’t been around in a long time, you were in Michigan. Or you could have gone off to California.” Then she smiled with satisfaction. “And look, I was right. Wasn’t I.”
On their way back to Des Moines, they were both completely silent.
“She might be mistaken,” Cal finally said after a very long silence.
“She’s not mistaken,” Sierra said. “He followed me. I bet he did have some kind of tracker in my phone.”
“Well, the phone is gone,” Cal said. “How long after he visited the farm did you check into rehab?”
She laughed, an almost hysterical sound. “Twenty minutes,” she said. “Okay, not quite that fast, but fast.”
“And they took all your personal items, including your phone, and turned it off and locked it away.”
“Yes, and when I asked my group leader if it was possible there was an app in my phone, he said he’d take care of it. He had the phone wiped, got a new number for me, and I was able to use it again after three weeks. But I had to check it out before I could have it. I couldn’t just have it in my possession. If you can believe it, there were people making drug buys from inside, if they could.”
“I believe it.”
“I got rid of the phone anyway,” she said. “I couldn’t chance it.”
They got into Denver at seven o’clock and instead of driving home, they stopped at Maggie’s house, now a very stylish crash pad for those nights she spent in Denver so she could work. It was then that Sierra finally caught up with Connie. “We’re in Denver, staying overnight so Cal can sleep with his wife and unborn baby, but she has surgery early in the morning so we’ll be up and on our way.”
“I have to work but I’ll try to sneak away just to see you,” he said. “Then on the weekend, I’m all yours. Or maybe you’re all mine.”
“Is Molly okay?”
“I think she misses you,” he said. “She keeps looking out the living room window. I’ll be taking her to Sully in the morning before work so she’ll be waiting for you.”
“I can’t wait to see her. Has she been a good girl?”
“She found herself an elk cow and calf. All survived...”
“I’m looking forward to a quiet weekend.”
“I just hope that whatever was upsetting you is past,” he said.
“What if it’s not? What if it’s never past?”
“Then I’ll comfort you as much as I can,” he said.
Sierra had no doubt where Connie was concerned. Of course he would be supportive and comforting; of course he was brave and loyal and wouldn’t falter. But what if it turned out to be more than he signed on for? What if she one day saw regret in his eyes?
* * *
“This is as much time as I’ve spent with you since I was a little kid,” Sierra told Cal when they got back to the Crossing.
“I was thrilled by every second of it,” he said. “And I hope we don’t have to do it again anytime soon.”
“Ditto,” she said.
Her reunion with Molly and Sully was perfect; Molly attacked her with excitement and Sully showed one of his rare, toothy smiles. Cal dropped her and took off, eager to get back to building. She suspected he needed the work to clear his head. She had a cup of coffee with Sully on the porch.
“Get everything taken care of?” he asked.
“As much as possible,” she said. “It’s complicated. Let me just say there are still a few messes from the past that have to be attended to.”
“Girl, not a person alive who doesn’t have messes from the past that could use cleaning up.”
“This one is pretty awful.”
“I meant awful messes,” Sully said. “Might be time you figured something out. Your life hasn’t always been a bowl of Froot Loops, but you’re smart and strong. And I don’t know a sin
gle person who gets through this with nothing but giggles. Frank went to war three times, then he got cancer. Twice. He sent a son to war and buried him. And at my age you start to realize someone like Frank isn’t a rare thing. It’s par for the course. It turns out the mark of a happy life isn’t staying just one step ahead of the grim reaper. It’s knowing you’re strong.”
“Is that your best advice?” she asked.
“Nope. My best advice is this—by the time you meet your Maker, and may it be a long, long time from now, I hope you can close your eyes on a life where you did your damn best and tried your damn hardest. It’s not winning that’s really winning. It’s never giving up.”
“Your life hasn’t been easy, I know,” she said.
“Much of it my own making,” he said. “But there were a few times I was flawless and I ran into some rotten luck anyway. If there’s any way I can help you with anything, you’ll let me know.”
But he never asked what it was.
She talked to Connie twice but he was so busy at the firehouse, she didn’t see him. He wasn’t working the weekend and she made plans to go to his house after lunch, after helping Sully a little bit in the garden. She told Connie to get a little rest; the firehouse had been hectic.
When she got to his house she found him waiting, freshly showered and shaved. Molly ran around in circles and then to her water dish but Connie pulled Sierra into his arms.
“It was so hard being away from you,” he said. “I’m afraid I’m going to suffocate you, be too possessive, scare you away.”
“Oh, Connie,” she said. “I have so many secrets.”
He put her back on her feet. “You want to talk?”
“I do. I have to talk.”
He shook his head. “Don’t be afraid of me, Sierra. You know it’s okay to talk to me. Nothing will chase me away. I love you.”
She thought her heart might explode. “You were going to let me say it first.”
“I couldn’t wait,” he said.
“You might run for your life,” she warned him.
“Sierra, listen to yourself sell me short. I go into burning buildings for a living. I dangle over sheer cliffs to help people. And that’s the half of what I do. What’ve you got to compete with that?”