Stepford USA (Jade Snow International Adventure #1)

by Lada Ray

  “Just like the old Chief Nordini,” said Beth approvingly. “I remember, he was so kind to both Rebbecca and Adelaide after... after it happened. He used to visit Adelaide to show support when Jason went to jail. He was such a nice man, and a great chief, too. What a shame he's gone.”

  Everyone nodded energetically, clearly in complete agreement with this statement.

  I sat, listening intently, when the world around me suddenly dissolved into a grey mist and I saw it for the first time. It was a mere flash: a young woman's body on damp night grass and a glint of moonlit lake, visible through the dark bushes. The struggling woman attempted to scream, but a man's hand – big and rough - covered her mouth. Another man, his fingers long and cold, pinned her down in a steely grip. Then, he was on top of her, savagely ripping her summer dress, while the third figure, the large-framed one, stood in the ghostly light of the moon and silently watched the terrible spectacle.

  It disappeared just as quickly. The next thing I knew, I swayed on my chair, coughing and gasping for air.

  “Jade, your knitting's unraveling,” Shawna leaned towards me with surprising agility, considering her bulging stomach, and managed to save my knitting project, a baby blanket perched precariously on my lap, which suddenly decided to acquire the life of its own.

  “Oh, thanks,” I said, still trying to shake off the disturbing vision. Of course, I knew of psychics and clairvoyants who could see things that happened in the past or would happen in the future. My guess was, I've just seen Rebbecca's rape. But how could that be? I never had visions before in my life. Why did I get one now? Was somebody trying to tell me something? Nothing in this vision of mine, if indeed it was a vision, was very clear. Just rough hands, night, lake, a struggling woman and multiple, looked like three, attackers. I didn't even see their faces. What could I do with this kind of vague information?

  I closed my eyes and sat like that, centering myself. A few moments later, I had a plan of action. When my eyes opened, five alarmed faces stared at me.

  “I think... um... I'm tired,” I announced, quickly gathering up my knitting into my new craft bag. “Looks like I've had enough for today. I'm going to be heading home.”

  “Perhaps, you should lie down?” said Maria, her gentle eyes clouded with worry.

  “Are you sure you're all right? Do you want me to drive you?” volunteered Beth.

  “Thanks. It's awfully sweet, but I am fine, really,” I responded. “It's just the heat. I'll see you all next week.”

  Chapter 9

  On my way home, I worked out a plan of action. Too late today, but tomorrow bright and early, I hit the library. Some serious research effort was called for and that meant going through local archives, old paper clippings, and through any other records I could uncover. What else, what else... I started feeling the fever, the rush of a chase, that altered state of being, which happens only when a bomb of a story is about to materialize. Because I knew there was a story here. And that – real – story was much different from the official version of events that everyone in this town wanted to believe.

  The next morning, I hurriedly gulped up my morning cup of tea and some yogurt. After that, I did a few quick stretches on the veranda. Lilac blooms in the garden gave out a delicate, exquisitely intoxicating smell and the lilies showed off with reckless abandon in flowerbeds. The understated daisies nodded their heads, dragonflies and butterflies fluttering their wings excitedly amongst them. I admired my garden for a few minutes, then picked up my bag containing a notebook, a pen, a small photo camera, a bottle of Evian and a few healthy energy bars. Bag on my shoulder, I locked the front door. Research day.

  I decided against the Stepford library as I didn't want to bump into any of my knitting buddies. For now, my investigation was to be a secret.

  The Berkshires had a fabulous library system. Each library was housed in a charming old building, usually a former mansion, with antique furniture and period pieces to boot. Each library had an ancient fireplace, its mantelpiece adorned with either exquisite old china or some local history mementos. The area had a fabulous atmosphere for writing, some intangible quality of mystery and otherworldliness that is priceless when you are in the business of creating stories, larger than life.

  I considered my choices, deciding on the Great Barrington library in the end. What was I looking for? I wasn't exactly sure. Something - anything that would help me understand better what really happened in this sheltered, paradise-like community some thirteen years past. What happened to poor Rebbecca? What was the role of Nick and his father, then police chief and chief investigator in the matter? And was there any involvement by Nick's unlikely friends, Peter, Marc and Jack?

  First, I stumbled upon a yearbook: the Stepford High School, Class of 1998. Jason gazed from his picture with a touch of enigmatic melancholy. He was rather thin, not nearly as muscular as now, and there was still something very innocent about him. But I could certainly see why girls would have been fighting over him – he was awfully attractive in a Bohemian, a la Lord Byron, aka, misunderstood poet, sort of way.

  Then I found Rebbecca's photo. She was very pretty and her face shone with a kind of bright and sexy smile that boys adore. Her wide-open eyes with those long, curving eyelashes looked from the picture directly into the big wide world with anticipation. They conveyed a serene, but unshakable belief that the unknown life she was about to step out to would be exciting, and kind, and very, very happy.

  Peter's photo showed a smiley teenager with effortless good looks and confidence of someone, whose destiny is clear and whose road in life has been strewn with roses.

  Jack on the picture looked almost exactly as he looked today. In a word, as a nerd.

  Marc's photo stood out. Even then, he liked being in front of a camera and posed with pleasure, looking athletic and confident, as if he held the whole world in the palm of his hand. This was a shot of a future politician. Everything in his appearance was rather congenial, except his eyes. They were narrowed and the look in them was cold. No, not quite. Calculating? Cruel? Although, I wondered how accurately could a picture convey an expression in anyone's eyes?

  And then, there was Nick. His was a photo of a burly, unsmiling young man, who had a cautious, almost suspicious look on his face, which seemed to say, “Why are you wasting my time on these silly pictures? I've got more important things to do.”

  In short, these old graduation photos of several very different teenagers told quite a story.

  Ready to close the yearbook, I stumbled upon an oversized panoramic group shot of the Class of 1998. It was rather informal: boys and girls commingling, chatting or simply gazing at each other for the last time, before saying goodbye and flying the coop. And that's where I hit the motherload.

  Nick and Marc were captured talking to each other, unquestionably two of the most athletic, big-shouldered guys in class. Jack was lurking right next to them, trying to show that he was included, yet the picture clearly revealed the pitiful truth - he firmly remained on the fringes of that conversation. Peter stood next to the other three, but his head was turned in the opposite direction. I followed the direction of his glance. It was fixed on Rebbecca.

  She stood to the side of the picture, deep in conversation with Jason. Well, the fact that Peter was looking – no, I corrected myself, staring – at Rebbecca so intently was nothing surprising. A lot of guys in the photo stared at her. And a lot of girls, at Jason. But the intensity of that gaze was so remarkable that I felt it even through the picture.

  So, Peter was infatuated with Rebbecca, but his was an unrequited passion. Was he jealous of Jason? And was he jealous and spiteful enough to have done the unthinkable - rape the woman he worshiped and then pin the crime on his lucky rival? And did his high school buddies help him? But how could they get away with it? The answer was simple. They needed the assistance of someone who had unencumbered access to the crime investigation, who could tamper with evidence and who could influence public opinion. In other
words, Chief Nordini, Senior, Nick's father.

  Everything fitted very smoothly, in fact... a bit too smoothly for my liking. I took a deep breath, trying to make sense of doubts that now flooded my mind. Perhaps, I was influenced by my likes and dislikes? Was I pre-judging before having real facts at my disposal? Shouldn't I hold my horses and give all potential actors in this drama the same benefit of a doubt I unequivocally afforded Jason? And then again, wasn't my imagination running away with me? Perhaps, the mystic air of the Berkshires was playing a joke on me after all? Perhaps, in this tragic, thirteen-year-old story, everything did happen as everyone believed? Perhaps, being bored and unable to pursue my beloved investigative journalist's calling, I invented the whole thing?

  Perhaps...

  But, despite a wisp of doubt lingering on the fringes of my mind, another part of me stubbornly refused to give up. My intuition was telling me that I was on the right path and I was used to trusting it one hundred percent. After all, it had never let me down. And so, I went on with my research.

  I found some old newspaper clippings archived on microfiche. An article in the Stepford Post, entitled The Stepford Tragedy, described how the night after graduation, a “suspected rapist,” Jason Paphos, took the unsuspecting Rebbecca Gilman to the so called Lovers' Clearing in the remote section of Hidden Lake and how he had raped and brutally beaten her, leaving her there for dead. The article went on to describe how Rebbecca was found and brought back to life, how she lost any ability to speak and retreated into the world of silence.

  Included was an oversized picture of Rebbecca, taken after the incident. The haggard, severely bruised face stared at me, totally unrecognizable. A blank expression, huge bruises around her eyes, a shapeless mouth with cruel, bloody gash across, a black and blue neck and matted, disheveled hair. Nothing about this picture reminded me of the smiling, healthy girl from the high school yearbook.

  I gazed at the picture for a moment or two and then, without warning, the world around me dissolved into the familiar grey mist and I saw it again. Night... grass... lake... young struggling woman on the ground... steely fingers pinning her down... rough hands covering her mouth, not letting her breathe... and looming in front, a faceless man, his huge body blocking the moonlight.

  I desperately gasped for breath. As the vision began to dissipate and the world started coming back into focus, I distinctly heard a strange whisper: DNA samples... DNA samples...

  “Are you okay, miss?” I opened my eyes to find a young man hovering over me. I blinked, trying to get my bearings. I was seated at a library table, clutching it so tightly that my fingers went white. I gulped, as senses slowly returned.

  “Are you all right?” repeated the young man. “Do you need help?”

  “Thank you so much,” I responded, hastily gathering my stuff. “I'm perfectly fine.”

  “Are you sure?” inquired the librarian, joining our little group. “Do you need me to call anyone to pick you up? Or perhaps, you need a ride home?”

  “Thank you, you're very kind. But I just need some air, that's all,” I said, beating a hasty retreat.

  It really did feel good to take a nice walk along the river and I breathed in the fresh air with abandon. Several minutes later, my thoughts were right back where they started, on Rebbecca's newspaper photo.

  Nothing, absolutely nothing was left of that beautiful girl who had so much to look forward to in life. This was cruel, unfair, incomprehensible. And yet, it happened. And if my hunch was correct, it was cruel and unfair not only to this poor girl. But now that so much time had passed, it was up to me, and me alone, to get to the bottom of what really happened that night.

  Chapter 10

  I was concerned about Adelaide. How was she taking Jason's arrest? How was her health? I decided to visit her. She greeted me at the door, still leaning on her cane, and I was alarmed to see how frail she looked. Princess Lily kept snuggling up against Adelaide's feet and it was clear, she was worried, too. And the atmosphere in this wonderful old house I came to love was unrecognizable. It has changed from that of quiet and positive dignity to the one of grief.

  Adelaide silently poured her famous jasmine green into my cup and offered me some lemon biscuits. Other than that, she said very little. I talked about the knitting club and about my writing, while she nodded distractedly. Then, we chatted about the animal shelter and I promised to come and help her out with animals some day. Adelaide was trying to avoid the painful subject. Not a word so far has been uttered about Jason.

  “By the way,” said Adelaide, “you should come and visit our cat adoption booth at the upcoming town fair. You can meet Amy, the shelter director, and some of the kitties. It's called the Stepford Day Fair and it will be on from ten to six this coming Sunday. As a matter of fact,” Adelaide got up with great difficulty and, holding on to the table for support, slowly made her way to the mantelpiece. “Here is an invitation.”

  “Thanks,” I said, accepting the card and trying not to betray how concerned I was about her health. “I really appreciate it. I have a friend coming to visit from New York, but maybe we can both stop by.”

  After another sip of Adelaide's fragrant tea I finally gathered enough courage to start the painful subject.

  “Adelaide,” I said. “I am very sorry about Jason and I'd like to help. What can I do?” I fell silent, not sure how she'd take my offer of help, since she'd always been so fiercely independent.

  “Thank you very much, Jade,” Adelaide responded with a feeling. “I think I'll take you up on your offer. I actually need a favor.”

  “Sure, anything!” I said, relieved. “What do you need?”

  “Well, you may not be as agreeable when I tell you. I need to visit Jason. He's in Pittsfield jail, awaiting his bail hearing.” Her eyes filled with tears. “But it's not until next Monday and till then, he'll be locked up. After I post bail, hopefully, they'll let him stay home until his court date.” She reached for a tissue and gently dubbed her eyes.

  “Yes, of course I'll come with you. I'll be happy to drive you,” I agreed immediately.

  “Thank you, dear, I'm so glad.” Adelaide put her hand on top of mine and again I was struck by how frail it felt.

  The next morning, I drove to Adelaide's house to pick her up. The Pittsfield jail was a huge, square building, located just off Main Street in the capital of the Berkshire County. There were only three above ground floors, but seven more levels were underground and that's where most of the inmates lived. We were shown into an impersonal-looking meeting room, where paint was peeling off the walls. As we sat on cold metal chairs and stared at the long Plexiglas screen dividing the room, I shivered, despite warm weather. The cold, it seemed, emanated not just out of chairs; here, it seeped through the walls. A minute later, Jason was brought in.

  “Oh, Jason,” cried Adelaide and reached for a tissue in her purse.

  “Hi Jason,” I smiled, in the vain hope of warming up the impossibly cold room.

  “Thanks for keeping Mom company,” he responded, returning my smile. “She needs all the support she can get right now.”

  “No problem. You both can count on me!”

  “Oh, Jason,” repeated Adelaide, exasperated. “Why, oh, why did you do it?” She dabbed her eyes, which were turning redder by the minute.

  “Mom, don't cry, please,” cringed Jason. “You know why. I had to let him know that I know...”

  “But why didn't you talk to me first? Why haven't you at least watched your back? And now, look at this!” Adelaide swept her eyes across the dreary space. “You could go to jail again for God knows how long and I... I am now too old to...” she couldn't continue, as tears started staining her light linen dress.

  “Mom, don't,” said Jason in a worried voice. “Please!” He looked at her pleadingly. “Understand, I had to.” He reached for her thin, almost transparent, hand. His capable, dark hand hit the hard screen and froze there, as if trying to send love to his mother through this indifferent
obstacle. I hugged Adelaide's trembling shoulders. We sat like that for a few moments. Then Jason whispered, “Everything will be all right, you'll see.”

  “Oh, but how can it be all right? How?” she said bitterly, about to start crying again. “You are in jail once more and let's hope they at least keep you here, in Pittsfield, close enough to home, so I can come and visit you. And not at that terrible place... where you'd suffered so much. And he - he is just like his father and I'm afraid he'll do anything in his power to keep you locked up.”

  “Mom,” said Jason quietly, throwing a surreptitious glance at the guard by the door to make sure he wasn't listening. “Let's not talk about this here. Let's talk about it at home, after they let me out on bail.”

  “The bail hearing's only on Monday. They couldn't find the judge on such short notice, or so they say. Likely story.” Adelaide sniffed. “So, you'll have to stay here...”

  “That's okay,” responded Jason hastily. “It's just three more days. I've been here longer.” He attempted a pale smile, which only caused his mother's lips to tremble again. I hugged her tighter. That seemed to calm her down.

  I had a flurry of questions on my mind about some mysterious phrases that have been said, but held my tongue, knowing that Jason didn't want the guards to overhear. We chatted a bit more and then, I drove Adelaide home. By the time we reached the house, she was feeling better and started bustling around the kitchen, preparing some snacks.

  I gladly accepted her invitation to stay for tea and, meanwhile, made myself busy playing with Princess Lily. I held a piece of yarn, evidently, one of her toys and let her pursue it around the floor. She jumped on it, capturing its end, then letting it go.