He pulled to a halt ahead of her, watching in the side-mirror as she drew closer, savoring the view. He switched the engine off, leaving just the sound of the wind. He pushed the CD into the player and turned the volume down low. His lips parted in a smile as the music started.
There was no-one else about. A vehicle disappeared into the distance.
The girl pedaled nearer, oblivious to his presence, ever closer, behind the van, moving out to pass. He put his fingers on the door handle and stopped, taking deep breaths.
She was nine. Ten, maybe.
White ankle socks.
A skirt much too short for cycling.
A glimpse of her underwear and he was breathing heavily.
She was alongside now.
Riding alongside the van, level with his door.
And then she was past, her hair flailing behind her in the wind.
Still cycling.
Safe.
Alive.
She'd never know how close she'd come.
How lucky she was to have been in the wrong place at the right time.
He turned the key and drove slowly away.
34
Brianna was a tomboy. Everybody said so.
Especially Brianna.
She hated being a girl and playing girlie games. She'd only grown her hair this long because her favorite baseball player wore his in a pony-tail. And she hated private school because she had to wear a school uniform. It was the only time her mother could ever get her to wear a skirt. Even then it was a battle. Brianna would wear her jeans and sneakers on the journey to school, with the regulation skirt stuffed in her bag, ready to change into before morning assembly.
But today was the last week of the school break, and she had no intention of wearing anything but jeans. As a concession to the grandmother she was on her way to see, she'd put on her pink jeans for the visit. Pink jeans savagely cut off at mid-thigh, with a loose fitting top that barely covered her navel, a cotton crop-top underneath. Chunky socks and brightly colored sneakers. It was as near to looking like a girl as she intended to get outside of school hours.
Her grandmother always asserted that when Brianna dressed in long blue jeans and t-shirts she looked just like a boy. She never could understand why her grand-daughter was so delighted with this statement. Nor would she ever understand why, had she not been so pernickety about her grand-daughter's fashion sense, Brianna might have completed the journey alive.
~
She pedaled stubbornly against the wind as she cycled along the narrow roads around the Red Hook Recreational Park. Her mother insisted that if she wanted to cycle the short way to Linden Acres instead of taking the bus it had to be by this quiet route. It was safer.
The anonymous white van cruised past the child without slowing, but his eyes never left the mirror until he took the bend. From the vantage point of the drivers' seat he could see the child approach. He flicked on the CD and turned up the volume.
As she drew nearer he unlocked the back doors of the van and leant in, as if retrieving something. Brianna never gave him a second thought.
Another broken down van.
She wanted a Harley Davison when she grew up.
As she came level he was upon her in an instant, one hand round her mouth, the other around her waist, throwing her into the back of the van like a toy, slamming the doors closed behind her. Seconds later, the girl still too dazed to comprehend what had happened, the doors opened again and the bike was thrown in with her, smashing into her leg, but the screams of pain were lost as the doors slammed shut and darkness enveloped her. Outside nothing could be heard but the wind in the trees.
He drove out on W. Market Street and made for the Hudson, crossing over the Kingston-Rhinecliffe Bridge.
By nine Brianna's grandmother had decided her grand-daughter would not be coming after all. Kids today. No manners. She might at least have phoned to say she'd changed her mind. She briefly considered calling the child's mother to remind her what day it was, but decided against it. Why waste her money? The rest of the family would be over at tea time. She'd speak her mind then.
In Red Hook Brianna's mother, too, glanced at the clock, guessing her daughter would be there by now, making the old lady happy on this special day. She set about her daily chores without a further thought.
It would be another six hours before anyone even realized Brianna was missing.
35
Greg Randall watched the taxi disappear down the long, winding drive before turning to face the imposing, late Georgian building, heavily clad with ivy, that offered no outwards signs of the nature of its business.
A small, discreet brass plaque by the door agreed with the letter-head he now held in trembling hands. He ran his eyes over the document, confirming time and date, checking his watch. He was a few minutes early and took the opportunity to straighten his tie, comb his hair and try to relax, clutching his cigarette packet, drawing desperately on a filter-tip.
Finally he pressed the button, staring nervously into the overhead camera.
“Welcome to the Quinlan Foundation. How may we help you?”
“My name's Greg Randall. I have an appointment.”
“One moment, please.”
A brief silence ensued during which he checked his watch twice and referred again to the letter.
Then, “Come through please, Mr Randall. We're expecting you.”
Electronic bolts slid back and the door swung open. A middle-aged woman attired in dowdy clothes and functional shoes approached, introducing herself simply as Molly. She led him along a polished parquet corridor to another door, swiped a card and it opened. She backed away in a docile manner as another woman stepped forward to greet him.
Pushing fifty, bespectacled, with short-cropped black hair and darting, cold eyes set in a worn, haggard face suggesting a tormented past, she stood before him in silence, eyeing him methodically from head to toe. Casually dressed in dated, faded jeans and a loose sweat shirt that couldn't quite disguise the hunched back, her face broke into a forced smile and she stretched out a withered hand.
“Welcome to the Quinlan Foundation, Mr Randall. I'm Dr Reynolds. Dr Quinlan's partner.”
Randall accepted the handshake cautiously, conscious of his sweaty palms against her dry skin, but if she noticed she gave no sign.
“I have an appointment, with Dr Quinlan?” It began as a statement but ended a question.
“Of course. Come in, please. Do you have the letter with you?”
Randall retrieved the document from his vest pocket and handed it to her. She remained expressionless as she read it slowly, her eyes occasionally leaving the page to study him, as if checking off some printed description. She eventually folded the letter and forced a smile, attempting an ambience that didn't quite work.
“Dr Quinlan regrets he cannot be with you today. He was called away at short notice, so I shall be conducting your initial assessment. That's providing you've no objection, of course.”
She paused very briefly as if offering him his only chance to register any reservations he might have. Before he could gather his thoughts she was speaking again. “Then, when I report back to Dr Quinlan, we'll decide which of us is best suited to treat your particular needs.”
Randall hesitated. “I wasn't told...”
“That you'd be dealing with a woman?” She forced a laugh. “Don't let that bother you, Mr Randall. Greg. Can I call you Greg? We like to keep things as informal as possible. Please call me Ruth.”
He began to speak but Reynolds was there first. “Let's go through to the lounge. Coffee?”
“Please. And sugar. Do you mind if I smoke?”
“Strictly speaking this is a place of work, but we won’t tell anybody if you won’t. If you can just wait until Molly brings an ash-tray.” She turned to Molly, still hovering in the doorway. “At your convenience, thank you.”
Dr Reynolds led him down the corridor and into the lounge, another unmarked room, again
accessed by security card.
“Make yourself at home, Greg. Wherever you feel most comfortable.”
Randall selected an armchair affording a view through large French windows across an expansive, well-kept yard, at the centre of which a gargoyle fountain gushed crystal water into an ornamental pond. Once seated Reynolds picked up the lap-top and selected a position directly opposite him. She hit the keys awkwardly with a gnarled finger.
“I just want to check the details we have so far, if that's okay.” She managed another forced smile.
“Let me see now. You're thirty four, is that right? An accountancy assistant, working for a small firm in Batavia. Married. Two children. Father now deceased. I'm sorry. Your parents’ divorce. Was that when you were a child?”
“A teenager. Nineteen. They stayed together until I’d finished at college.”
Reynolds nodded casually. “Brothers and sisters? Ah yes. I thought that might be the case. The eldest child. Now, Greg, you first approached Dr Quinlan about four months ago, is that correct?”
He nodded, desperate for a cigarette.
“That's quite a delay between your first approach and your being here today. Is there any particular reason for that?”
He managed a half-hearted laugh. “Plucking up the courage, I guess. It wasn't easy, making the call.”
The smile. “No, I quite understand. It's very brave of you. It takes a great deal of courage to openly admit to a sexual attraction towards children.”
36
Randall was numb.
There was some vague hope in the back of his mind that maybe she didn't know. That Dr Quinlan hadn't explained to her why he was there.
But there it was, out in the open. And said so casually. No hint of shock, or distaste.
Before he could gather his thoughts she was speaking again.
“Now, it's just girls you find interesting, isn't it, Greg? You're not gay or anything?” She asked the questions as if they were an everyday subject of discussion. It occurred to him that for her they probably were. The thought made it just a little easier.
He fiddled nervously with his tie. “Just girls. Definitely not boys.” He stressed the point as if it were really important.
“Tell me, was there a particular incident or event that acted as the catalyst in your coming here, to seek help from the Quinlan Foundation?”
Randall hesitated. “The girl who was killed recently...” He reached for his cigarettes, fumbling nervously with the packet. Where was that ash-tray?
“Rebecca?”
“Poor kid. I'm not like that, you understand. I'm not capable of hurting a child. Of killing anyone. My fantasies aren't violent in any way, believe me. But I fear for the future. Where it might lead…”
The smile. “You may find it reassuring to know that we've had a number of new clients following that horrendous incident. You're by no means alone with your problem, Greg. There are plenty more men out there going through the same thing.”
“Really?”
“It's much more common-place than people realize. But tell me, how did you come to hear about the Foundation?”
“It was when I first began to worry about... About my interest in children... I tried reading up on it, but the local libraries weren't exactly full of books on that kind of thing. There were plenty of books about the abused children themselves, but nothing about the adult's side of the story.”
“Did you come across any of Dr Quinlan's works on the subject.”
“I didn't know there were any.”
Reynolds smiled condescendingly. “Of course, they're hardly the type of work your average library would stock. But it happens that Dr Quinlan is one of this country's foremost experts on paraphilias.”
She saw his vacant expression and explained, “Paraphilias. Sexual deviancies. Dr Quinlan has published works on just about every conceivable variation on the sexual act, you know. But pedophilia is his specialty. Adult sexual desire towards children. It's a lot more common than you might think, Greg. Believe me. But you were saying… About how you came to know of the Foundation?”
Randall collected his thoughts. “I tried everything. The internet. Psychiatric hospitals. You name it. In the end I confided in my priest, on behalf of a friend. I don’t know if he believed me or not. But he had heard about Dr Quinlan through a prisoner he had dealings with. It was the priest who suggested I try contacting him.
“You found us easily?”
“Not easily, but with an unusual name like Quinlan...”
Reynolds nodded. “And here you are.”
“And here I am.”
“And you'd never heard of us before that?”
“No, I'm sorry. Never.”
Reynolds beamed at him. “There's no need to apologize, Greg. That's excellent news. Even our neighbors have not the faintest idea of the nature of our work. We provide a very select, confidential service to our clients. Almost all our cases are referrals, from other doctors or clinics, invariably from professional sources, although a very few, like yourself, come by way of self-referral. Have you told anyone you're here?”
“I wouldn't dare. I have two daughters. If word got back to Social Services...”
Reynolds leant forward, forcing her most sincere smile yet.
“Greg, let me assure you right now, you have no need to worry. Our service is based on absolute discretion. No-one outside of the Foundation will ever know what you discuss with us here, unless you personally choose to tell them. And of course, we'd prefer you didn't. If the nature of our work becomes widely known it makes it more difficult for people like yourself to approach us without raising suspicion. It would also jeopardize our future. Public ignorance. The mob mentality. No, everything here is in the strictest confidence and based on complete, mutual trust. You have to trust us and in turn we have to trust you.”
“What about the information you have on computer?”
“Purely background details, stored internally here at the Foundation. These computers aren't on line, so it's impossible for anyone to hack into our system and obtain confidential information. In addition each case is given a code, so even if the disks were somehow stolen then no-one could be identified by name. We operate a very tight security base here Greg, for obvious reasons. Believe it or not some of our clients are quite eminent members of society: Judges. Senior policemen. Even Members of Congress.”
37
“You must realize, Greg, that you are by no means alone in your... how can I put it... your sexual orientation. We have a large number of clients. Some, like yourself, are merely confused and concerned about their desires. Others have actually broken the body barrier.”
“The body barrier?”
“That is, they've become physically involved with a child.”
Randall struggled to remain expressionless.
“But even so, our confidentiality remains paramount. No matter what you tell us here, even if you admit to actions which breach the law in some way, even if you admitted to harming a child, your total confidentiality is assured at all times. Our purpose is to help our clients deal with their problems, not to make moral and social judgments about their way of life.”
“I guess you won't be shocked by what I tell you, then.”
“Not in the slightest, Greg. We've seen and heard things here beyond your wildest imagination. Every aberration you could possibly think of.”
“Really?”
“Honestly. Obviously I can't elaborate, but rest assured we've seen it all. Children. Animals. Inanimate objects. Even the dead. In fact necrophilia is one of the biggest growth areas.”
Randall shuddered. Fancying little kids was bad enough. The thought of doing it to a horse or a sheep left him cold. As for a corpse...
“I can assure you we have a high success rate for helping our clients to resume normal lives, Greg. That said, the treatment isn't always easy, or pleasant. Nor is it cheap. Dr Quinlan did tell you there would be a fee?”
“H
e did.”
“We've many years experience, Greg. Rest assured you're doing the right thing and you've come to the right place. Ah, here's our refreshments, and your ash-tray. I can see you're desperate for it.”
Randall had lit his cigarette and was taking the first long drag even before the ash-tray was on the table.
“Thank you, Molly. We'll be in session for the next sixty minutes. Please ensure we're not disturbed.”
As Molly pulled the door closed, Reynolds flattened the computer screen and pushed the unit across the table. She gestured to Randall to help himself before bringing her own cup to hover by her lips.
“Now Greg, as you can see, no notes are being taken. No recordings being made. This is just an informal session. And there's no fee for this assessment. When I've had an opportunity to discuss your case with Dr Quinlan we'll prepare a detailed plan of action and of course we'll need to discuss fees at that stage. Okay?”
Randall nodded.
“But for now I just want you to relax. In your own time, I want you to tell me what exactly it is that brings you here. About your interest in little girls. What you feel. What you fear you might do. What your fantasies are and how you deal with them. Everything you put into the questionnaire, and of course the many things you didn't. Be blunt. Use whatever language or expressions you feel comfortable with. But above all, be honest. The more honest you are about your problem, the better we can help you. Believe me, you won't shock me. However unique or bizarre it may seem to you, I've heard it all before. And far, far worse, I promise you.”
She forced a smile. “Now, let's begin, shall we?”
38
In the van's silent darkness Brianna huddled, her body trembling, clutching her bike in front of her as a shield. Her screams had quickly subsided and she brought all her attention to bear on her plight.
She'd seen the van parked on the roadside.
She'd seen the man leaning into it.
What had happened next was a blur but she knew she was in the van now. Fear concentrated her mind. She was nine years old. Almost ten.
Sugar & Spice (US edition) Page 7