The Witness: A Novel

by Naomi Kryske

  The monster. She’d thought her mission against him was over when the trial ended and the verdict was handed down. But Simon had told her that a mission wasn’t over until you returned to your base. Her base—where she’d come from—was Houston. She’d gone home, but that hadn’t been the solution. Maybe returning to base for her didn’t mean a place, but a state of mind where her body was not at war with itself.

  In a murder case you couldn’t let go until you’d fitted all the pieces together, Colin had said. She hadn’t been able to fit all the pieces of her relationship with Colin together, and until she did, the monster would continue to live inside her, affecting her actions and responses. Somehow she needed to exorcise him, to drive the fear away. Fear was crippling, but it was a feeling. She had been terrified of the monster, but she had pushed herself to testify against him. She looked up at the flag Colin had given her, impressed by its bold colors. Roosevelt and Churchill had used bold words. She was capable of bold actions.

  Freedom from fear—Roosevelt had coined the phrase. Dr. Knowles hadn’t used those words, but that was the goal of the therapy he was providing. He considered lovemaking to be a response to an entire individual, to his intangible qualities as well as his tangible ones. But perhaps humans were never entirely free from fear. She remembered Simon’s statement about pushing yourself until you were a little afraid. It must be okay, then, to be a little afraid.

  FDR had discussed four freedoms, however. Each led to a particular benefit, but together they added up to something more—more than a cessation of conflict, more than the dismissal of danger, more than the removal of persecution—their sum was peace. Peace had been declared, and men had put down their weapons. Perhaps peace was what she needed to seek.

  How? She couldn’t borrow Dorothy’s bewitching shoes and be transformed. Her parents’ minister had defined peace as a sense of inner calm despite stormy circumstances. He had implied that healing would bring peace. Based on Colin’s behavior this last weekend, if she wanted more than affection, she would have to show him. He had made no move to undress her. She’d have to let go of fear, one breath at a time, one kiss at a time, one touch at a time. She would strive to clothe Colin and herself in peace.

  CHAPTER 32

  “We’re better, Dr. Knowles,” Jenny began. “We’ve talked. We’ve touched.”

  “Then the two of you have had a positive week.”

  Colin wondered what she would choose to report. She’d been freer in her affections since the crisis between them had been resolved. She had exposed him a bit more with each exercise. She had seemed complimented, not threatened, when she excited him.

  “Tell me about it!” she exclaimed.

  Knowles smiled at her expression for strong agreement. “I think you’re meant to tell me.”

  She blushed and shook her head.

  “Jenny, sex is a language. I need to know what you are communicating to Colin when you touch him.”

  “You want to know what I say?”

  “Not exactly, no. I want to be sure that whatever you and Colin do together, you do freely. What are you thinking when you’re with him?”

  “I’m not thinking,” she said, coloring again.

  “Being aware of what we’re feeling is a form of thinking,” Knowles explained. “I need to know if fear is still involved.”

  “At first I was afraid of what he would do. Then I was afraid of his body. It took me a long time to realize that I owe him the same attentiveness and gentleness that he’s shown me.”

  “We are all wounded,” Knowles agreed. “The nature of the wound varies, that’s all.”

  “I feel safe with him now, Dr. Knowles. I just don’t always feel safe other places.”

  “Where don’t you feel safe?”

  “We go out to eat often, and if it’s somewhere I haven’t been before, I’m uneasy. I want to know where the alternate exits are, if any, and which way out is the quickest. I wonder about the other people in the restaurant. Are they friendly? That kind of thing.”

  “Jenny, you should feel encouraged. Many victims experience generalised fear—that is, fear of one man that expands to encompass fear of all men. You reversed this process while you were in witness protection, thanks to the support you received from those officers.”

  “That one man still comes at me, Dr. Knowles.”

  “In nightmares?”

  “Yes. In witness protection I was spoiled—the guys would wake me up if they thought I was having a bad dream. A cup of tea or cocoa in the middle of the night if it was really bad, a little company and some reassuring words when it wasn’t. At Colin’s there’s no one on watch, of course. Sometimes I wish we were sleeping together, because then I wouldn’t be alone when the dreams come.”

  I can grant that wish, Colin thought.

  “You can counter that with a purposeful dream,” Knowles said, “one you can control. It’s called visualisation, using the mind to precede and guide the body. We think of possible courses of action, decide how we feel about them, and then choose what to do. However, creating one positive scenario is not enough. Embellish your mental image. The more specific you can be, the better. All sorts of situations can benefit from this technique, but you can use it to prepare yourself for a more intimate physical relationship with Colin. Where do you want him to touch you? How will his fingers feel on your skin? What will he say? See him in your mind, and watch your body respond. Harness the power of your imagination, evaluate the feelings that are generated, but Jenny—do not act on those feelings yet.”

  “You want me to think about making love, but not do it.”

  “More than that—I want you to think it through. The pathway to healing is truth. Be honest with yourself. If at any point in your mental exercise you feel even the mildest anxiety, stop the tape, rewind, and begin again.”

  “But Dr. Knowles—”

  “Jenny, there is no risk in patience. Every minute you invest now will pay great dividends later on. I am not suspending your physical exercises, you understand, simply adding an intellectual one.”

  She frowned. “I don’t see how—”

  “We all daydream. I’m asking you to set aside some time for a very focussed daydream. Even persons with an established sexual relationship can benefit from an active, healthy fantasy life.”

  CHAPTER 33

  MISSING!

  Have you seen our beloved daughter?

  Height: 5’2” Approximate weight: 7 stone

  Generous reward offered for relevant information.

  There was a contact number given on the handbill, and the face that looked back at Sinclair was Jenny’s.

  He had taken the Jubilee line from Finchley Road tube station to Westminster, where he removed the first notice from the wall. On the way to the platform for the District line, he tore down the second. Upon his exit at St. James’s, he ripped away the third. It was fraud of the most dangerous kind.

  “Sir, they’re everywhere,” Andrews said when he entered his office at the Yard. “I took down all the ones I saw.” He had placed them in a stack on Sinclair’s desk. “Where’d they get the snap?”

  “Must have been a school photo,” Sinclair replied. “Jenny?” he said when she answered her mobile. “Do not leave the flat for any reason. Promise me! I’ll ring you back shortly to explain.” He put the phone down. “I’ll ring Graves and request a meet. Transport Police need to be informed.”

  “Does Graves know Jenny’s in London?” Andrews asked.

  “After the article in the Telegraph, he demanded to know her whereabouts.” He picked up the phone again and was told by Graves’ secretary that he would be available in thirty minutes. “There’s danger not only to Jenny, but to anyone who resembles her. Those flyers must come down immediately.”

  Again he was dialling. “Mother, I’m sending Jenny to you today. She needs a place to hide for a while. Continue your regular activities, and don’t advise anyone of her presence. I’ll give you more information l
ater.” He ended the call, and his mobile rang almost immediately. “Sinclair speaking.”

  “Casey here, sir. How’s Jenny?”

  “All right for the moment, but I could do with your help. I want her to go to my mother’s, in Kent, but I can’t get away, and I don’t want her to use public transport.”

  “I have a car, sir, and I’m not on until late. How far is it?”

  “This side of Ashford. No more than three hours’ drive.”

  “I’ll collect her within the hour.”

  “Ring me when you’re on the M20, and I’ll give you further directions. And thank you, Sergeant.”

  His next call was to Jenny. He explained as briefly as he could about the bulletins in the tube stations. “Casey’s on his way. I want you to go with him, Jenny. Pack quickly. My mother is expecting you.”

  When she spoke, her voice was unsteady. “Will I be able to see you before I go?”

  “It’s not possible. Ring me after you arrive. I’ll tell the Hollisters you won’t be coming in. I love you, Jen.”

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  When Simon arrived, Jenny was glad she’d changed into blue jeans. He drove a jeep, and the inside looked as if it had been under siege. She hadn’t known how long Colin wanted her to stay in Kent, so she’d filled one suitcase and one rolling bag. Simon put both of them in the back of the 4x4.

  Jenny put on her sunglasses until they were out of the city and thought about how swiftly one’s life can change. on Saturday she and Colin had spent a glorious day walking on the Heath and touring Kenwood House just to the north of it. The paintings—by Rembrandt, Turner, vermeer, and others—and the elegance of the decor made it hard to believe that this mansion had been someone’s summer home. It was even more exquisite than the Wallace Collection, and the library, designed by the Scottish architect Robert Adam, was a graceful room, with rounded columns, an ornate curved ceiling, and delicate arches. No studious atmosphere here—light abounded in the vast interior. The classical artists whose works she’d seen had portrayed their subjects on canvases stretched between wooden frames, but this whole room had been Adam’s canvas.

  After they’d seen the house, she and Colin had picnicked on the grounds until the orchestral concert began in the amphitheatre. It had been a feast for the senses—the house, the meal, the music. Colin’s hand in hers as they walked home in the dark. His lips on hers afterward. Now she felt numb.

  She heard Simon’s voice and turned toward him, listening while he repeated the directions Colin was giving him. “Simon, why would you do this for me?” she asked when he closed his mobile.

  “Habits are hard to break, particularly bad ones.”

  “Simon!”

  “Mission isn’t over if you’re still in harm’s way.”

  They turned off the highway. When she had come with Colin, it had been dark, and she hadn’t been able to see the twists and turns through the countryside. She recognized the house, though, when they pulled up in front of it.

  Simon paused for a moment before turning off the ignition, taking in the house and the grounds that surrounded it. If Jenny stayed with Sinclair, she would never want for anything.

  “I’m so glad you’re here safely,” Joanne said, coming out of the house and embracing her. “You must be Sergeant Casey.”

  “Simon, ma’am.” He took Jenny’s bags out of the jeep.

  “You have the Rose again,” Joanne said. “Meet me in the kitchen. We’ll have lunch.”

  Simon followed Jenny up the stairs and deposited her bags in the bedroom with the roses. “I can’t stay,” he said. She wouldn’t be needing him. He had some holiday time coming. He’d take it.

  CHAPTER 34

  In Kent, the danger seemed very far away. With profuse apologies, Colin’s mother dashed off to a garden club event not long after lunch. She didn’t spend much time at home on weekdays, she explained to Jenny, and Colin had told her she wasn’t to alter her regular schedule in any way. She encouraged Jenny to make herself comfortable.

  During Joanne’s absence, she explored the rooms on the ground floor. She found the TV in a wooden cabinet in the smaller of the two sitting rooms. The conservatory was less formal, cushions on wroughtiron frames instead of upholstered furniture. The use of glass had been maximized, bringing the blue of the sky and the green of the forest into the room, and the pillows on the love seats were a pale teal, as if the outdoor elements had been blended in the interior color scheme.

  The library was an elegant space with cool blue wallpaper and an ivory tree pattern. She inspected some of the volumes there, none of which appeared to be recent publications. Prior to her time at Hollister’s, she wouldn’t have noticed, but these shelves were full of fine or near fine leather-bound editions by all the major British historians: Carlyle, Macaulay, and Gibbon. Churchill was well represented. Shakespeare’s complete works were there, as well as those of Dickens. Major poets—Byron, Shelley, Keats, and Tennyson—were included as well as several lesser known ones. Delderfield and Buchan were the only contemporary novelists, and there were no paperback books of any kind.

  Finding Shelley was like finding an old friend. Remembering Esther Hollister’s declaration that a book needed to be held, she removed one from the shelf and looked around for a place to sit. It was strange that the desk was set away from the wall, she thought, but a closer look revealed that the back was just as attractive as the front, the wood curved and finished with detailed drawings of ferns and other flora. The dark brown leather recliner was slightly worn, and she wondered why, when everything else in the room was in such pristine condition, until she sank into the soft cushions.

  Colin phoned every night, a disembodied voice. Simon did not call at all. Everyone seemed far away except for Mr. MacKenna, who had had to wait in the drive Tuesday morning until Joanne woke and spotted his vehicle. Since the bedrooms were upstairs, she hadn’t heard his knock. When Jenny came down for her tea, the pot was almost empty, Joanne having filled MacKenna’s cup repeatedly. Colin had told her a retired copper would be coming to keep an eye on things.

  Jenny found his presence reassuring, because it reminded her of her time in witness protection, although she could leave the house if she wanted to. Sean MacKenna didn’t walk with her, trailing a dozen or more yards behind. “Best if I keep my eyes about,” he said, and he did. If she took a book with her and propped her feet on the bench in the arbor, he was in the area but not close enough to smell the honeysuckle. When she stopped at the duck pond, she could see his stocky form leaning against a tree, watching and waiting for her to move on. His eyes were never on her, peering instead over her head, around her, making a complete circuit and then beginning again. He rolled his own cigarettes, bending his ruddy face forward when he lit them and smoking them until the ash blackened his fingers. When the butts were cool, he placed them in a handkerchief in his pocket. He kept his beard and mustache neatly trimmed, and in his hands, smoking was a tidy habit.

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  Colin’s weekend in Kent had passed quickly. When he left on Sunday, his mind was heavy with the memory of his conversation with Jenny about Scott. She had pressed him for information, not understanding how someone from a nice family could have so many crime connections.

  “He was involved with drugs, Jenny. That subculture is peopled with unsavory characters. Drug raids often yield caches of weapons as well. Dealers and their henchmen are prepared to use them to protect their investment. He could have had contact with any number of persons who were willing to do anything for the right price.”

  “Did drugs make him a rapist? And a murderer?”

  “No, we believe that he was predisposed toward violence against women. We had a psychological profile prepared, so we knew a good deal about him before we knew his specific identity. A profile is an investigative tool, you understand. It can’t be used evidentially unless we can root out material to support it.”


  “What did the profile say?”

  “That we were looking for a man in his thirties, possibly late thirties, who had been abused as a child, either by his father or another male authority figure. He would have been angry at his abuser but envious of his power and stature. Somehow sex and violence became inextricably linked. As he grew, he modelled his abuser’s behaviour and discovered that violence empowered him. He felt rage at his mother, who likely knew and didn’t protect him. His sadism and need to dominate wouldn’t have led him to be successful with women in traditional relationships.”

  She shook her head slowly. “It’s hard to believe that a father would do that to his own son.”

  “We were never able to demonstrate it. Jenny, if Scott had sought help—instead of acting on his impulses—I would have every sympathy for him. When he injured someone else, however, he passed the point of no return. As far as I’m concerned, he deserves everything he gets.”

  “Is he raping people in prison, do you think?”

  “No, it’s likely they’re raping him. A sort of justice exists behind bars.”

  “Will he ever stop coming after me?”

  “I believe so. Prison has a way of settling a man.”

  “I want to come home, Colin.”

  “I know, Jenny.” There were flowers in bloom around them and clear skies above. He changed the subject and postponed telling her his decision as long as he could. It would take time for her image on the flyers to fade and for him to be convinced that this incident was a one-off.

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