Last Girl Gone

by J. G. Hetherton

  CHAPTER

  12

  TWO MILES EAST, just as the sun touched Highway 70 in her rearview mirror and pumped the sky full of purple, the needle on the Dart’s gas gauge dropped into the E. Laura drifted the car down a rutted clay shoulder and into a gas station’s cracked parking lot. As the tank was filling up, she walked around the corner of the building and pulled out her phone.

  “Hello, Dr. DeVane’s office.”

  It caught her off guard. “Oh, um, is Dr. DeVane available?”

  “Speaking.”

  “Jasmine, it’s Laura Chambers. What are you doing in the office on Saturday evening?”

  “I could ask you a version of the same question. As in, what are you doing calling the office on a Saturday night?”

  “I didn’t expect to get you. Figured I’d leave you a voicemail.”

  She could hear the doctor’s sharp intake of breath. “Laura, is this an emergency?”

  A light bulb went off in Laura’s head. She realized that the context—a therapy patient calling a therapist outside of business hours—implied she was having some kind of breakdown.

  “Nothing like that. No, really, I mean it. I’m getting gas out on the highway, I had a free minute, and I wanted to ask you something. I just figured, why not leave a message.”

  “That’s fine,” Jasmine said. “Ask away.”

  “Really, I don’t want to keep you on Saturday night.”

  “Laura.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve been here two months longer than you have and I make a living telling people about their problems. Which, by the way, is something I’m not exactly great at turning off outside the office. Do you really think you’re keeping me from anything other than a hot bath and a good book?”

  Laura thought for a moment. “In that case, can you meet me for a drink?”

  There was a long pause on the other end of the line, then, “I don’t think that would be appropriate.”

  “Look, Doc, this isn’t about me. I called because I wanted your professional opinion on the story I’m working on.”

  Another pause. “The missing girl.”

  “Yes. I’ve received a great deal of new information—too much, really—and I could use some help sorting the wheat from the chaff. Plus, I’d like your take on the psychological angle of things. If it works for you, maybe we can do an interview on the record.”

  “I’m still not sure it’s the right thing to do.”

  “Neither is sitting at home on a Saturday night. Come on, don’t make me twist your arm. You’re the only person I know who can offer an expert opinion on this. You’d be doing me a favor.”

  “Well,” Jasmine said, and coughed. “I suppose it couldn’t hurt.”

  * * *

  The inside of Hopsky’s was the same as the night before except that half the patrons were wearing bowling shirts. Snatches of conversation here and there make it clear there had been a tournament and this was the after party.

  The blue shirts all wore smiles and kept slapping each other on the back. They were drinking hard.

  The green shirts grimaced at each new cheer and looked fit to start throwing punches. In between edged whispers, they drank even harder.

  Laura spotted Jasmine DeVane secreted away in a back booth wearing a black cocktail dress and pumps. She waved, got a bourbon rocks from the bar, and slid in across from her.

  “Thanks for meeting me.”

  “I still don’t quite feel right about it.”

  “Well, if it makes you feel better, I can buy your drinks. I mean, if you’re going to take advantage of a patient, you might as well make out in the process.”

  Jasmine smiled. “Okay, I get it, I’m beating a dead horse.”

  “And believe me, I hear where you’re coming from,” Laura said. “I know a thing or two about the dangers of navigating professional ethics. But hear me out, because I’m not sure this is any kind of violation. I really do want your help on my story.”

  Jasmine gave her a look that very clearly said, You’re oversimplifying and you know it. “You’re still my patient.”

  “I could quit.”

  “And terminate your therapy for the sake of a news story? Now we really are into the realm of the unprofessional.”

  “So there’s no way you can be my doctor and help me on this too?”

  Jasmine DeVane slugged the rest of her vodka tonic. “It’s more of a gray area.”

  “I’ll take that as, you’ll hear me out.”

  “Just give me a minute.” Jasmine started to stand.

  Laura snatched up her glass and headed for the bar before she could protest. Once on a stool, she threw back the rest of her bourbon and ordered another one along with a vodka tonic. The bartender made them both quickly and slid them across the wood without a word.

  Behind her, she heard the sharp clack of the cue ball breaking and a shout. She turned with the drinks and walked straight into the back of a cue.

  The man wielding it had been bent over the table, lining up his shots, and he cursed, then spun around. “Hey, are you blind or just stupid?”

  Laura shrugged and stooped her shoulders, a perfect imitation of a dunce. “Oh, I’m just stupid I guess,” she said, exaggerating her southern accent. “About as stupid as getting worked up over a simple accident and a barroom pool game.”

  “Hey,” he said, and his forehead crinkled. It seemed as if he was trying to think of something else to say. Instead, he took two quick steps forward and leaned in close, breathing on her. His mouth smelled of garlic and grease.

  Laura took a step back so fast she spilled most of the drinks.

  “You gonna clean that up?” he asked. He was one of the men in the green bowling shirts. His was open a third of the way down, displaying a rough thatch of hair threaded with a gold chain. The remaining buttons strained against his beer belly and he had a widow’s peak so sharp it looked like he might cut himself.

  Maybe all that hair had just slid down to his chest.

  “What the hell are you smiling at?”

  “Nothing,” she said.

  “Sure, sure.” He squinted, looking her up and down. “No need to be a bitch about it, you know? I’m just having a little fun with you.”

  “Fun’s over,” Laura said, and turned on her heel. The bartender had seen everything, and two replacement drinks were already waiting for her.

  “No charge,” he said.

  She thanked him and took the drinks, then made her way around the far side of the pool table. All the while she could feel green shirt’s eyes burning holes in the back of her head.

  “What was that all about?” Jasmine asked once she was settled.

  “Just some asshole. I know, I know—I shouldn’t have engaged with him. You’re not going to shrink me for giving him shit, are you?”

  Jasmine shot a long glance in the direction of the pool table, then shook her head. “No, he must have deserved it.”

  “He’s still giving me the evil eye?”

  Jasmine gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. “But forget about him. In a few minutes they’ll finish their game and be out of our little corner. Why don’t you tell me exactly what you had in mind.”

  Laura walked her through everything she had learned so far, from the details of Olive Hanson’s body to the killings from 1988 to the mountain of files she’d acquired. They ordered more drinks. And when she looked up, green shirt was long gone.

  “So you want a consultation,” Jasmine said.

  “Correct. The evidence linking the three dead girls from 1988 to Hanson and Teresa Mitchem is anecdotal at best.”

  “The number of similarities seem too great to simply be coincidence.”

  “That’s my instinct as well. But if I publish a story like that, well, reporters aren’t supposed to speculate.”

  “But psychologists can,” Jasmine said.

  “Bingo. And reporting the conclusions of a psychologist is a lot different than drawing
conclusions on my own.”

  Jasmine sipped her drink and drummed her fingers on the tabletop. “Let’s be clear. If you and I talk, really talk, I may draw some early conclusions. That’s the nature of conversation: it bounces around. Can we agree we won’t print anything I might say while thinking out loud? I’d want time at the end to prepare a final report for you, and you’d only be able to use what’s in the report. If it turns out not to be insightful or glamorous, so be it.”

  “Sounds fair to me,” Laura said. “Since we’re laying our cards on the table, can I ask you a few questions about your background?”

  Jasmine shifted uncomfortably on her bench. “This is why I thought meeting outside of therapy would be a bad idea. Strange as it may seem, the less you know about me personally, the better I can perform as your doctor.”

  “But you already know so much about me,” Laura said.

  “Certainly. That’s the way it’s supposed to be. It creates a power dynamic, and in the hands of a good therapist, that power can be used to positively influence a patient.”

  Laura shrugged. “We’re talking about professional background here, not your fifth-grade crush.”

  Jasmine threw back her head and laughed louder than she ever had before. Laura made a mental tally of her trips to the bar. Four, maybe five? She’s drunk, Laura thought, and smiled at the absurdity of it. My therapist and I are getting drunk together.

  “What is that little half smile about?” Jasmine asked.

  “I wasn’t smiling,” Laura said quickly.

  “No, you were smirking.”

  “I was not smirking!”

  “You’d be a terrible poker player, Laura. It’s your tell. You keep good eye contact, you nod along with the conversation, but inside your head, you’re in your own little world. And I can tell, because you get this smirk on your face.” She covered her mouth with her hands suddenly. “That wasn’t mean, was it?”

  “Actually, it was pretty solid advice.”

  Jasmine slouched into the booth a little more. “Okay, professional background. I got my degree from University of Chicago, did my residency at UC Medical Center on the south side. I specialized in abnormal psychology.”

  Laura perked up. “Abnormal psychology, really?”

  “Don’t get your hopes up. I see that look on your face, like you just hit a gold mine. It’s not like that. Schizophrenia and psychopathy are a lot more common than you would think, especially in a big city like Chicago. We had our hands full, day in and day out. I must have treated”—she sipped her drink and glanced up at the ceiling, putting together an estimate—“let’s say somewhere in the low thousands.”

  Laura whistled.

  Jasmine waved her off. “It’s a mental hospital. Sometimes I’d see ten a day. But did I ever, in all those thousands, talk to an actual serial killer?”

  Laura leaned closer, her hands flat on the tabletop.

  “Oh, my, look at your face,” Jasmine laughed. “Of course not. Not one in all those years. The media loves serial killers. It’s no wonder why—look at the two of us gossiping about it. It makes for compelling reading, but as a percentage of the population they barely exist.”

  Laura sat back. “But we’ve got one here in Hillsborough.”

  “Nothing in the statistics prevents incidences of bad luck.”

  “That’s what you think this is, bad luck?”

  The very fine edges of the doctor’s speech started to slur. “Well,” she said, “it’s not exactly good luck, is it?”

  Laura changed the subject. “How long were you in Chicago?”

  “Almost a decade.”

  “And then you just decided to move here.”

  Jasmine paused. Her green eyes, usually so sharp, had started to shimmer under the bar lights. “Not just,” she sighed. “Everyone has personal problems. You’ve got Boston, and I’ve got…”

  Something about the look on Jasmine’s face touched Laura’s maternal instinct. She reached out and put a hand on her doctor’s.

  “What?”

  “Chicago,” Jasmine said finally. “Let’s just say I have Chicago.”

  “And we can leave it at that.”

  “I had to get out of there, you know?” Using her thumb, she started massaging the back of Laura’s hand. “And this place seemed as good as any.”

  “Of all the places in the world, why choose North Carolina? Most people around here rank therapy somewhere between Eastern medicine and voodoo.”

  “I think you just answered your own question.” Jasmine pointed at the long line of men and women waiting to get drinks from the bar. “A seven-thousand-person town, and not a single mental health professional until I came along. Do these people look happy to you?”

  Laura glanced over in time to see a man rebuffed turn and say something to his friends, who in turn said something nasty to the group of women. In seconds they were shouting at each other.

  “No, they do not.”

  Jasmine nodded. “Stigma or not, I’ve got a nice little business running. These people are crying out for help. Not in so many words, but they are.”

  “But that’s not specific to this town, is it?”

  Jasmine shook her head. “No, you’re right. People are crying out for help no matter where you go.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” Laura said, and they did. More than once. A half hour later the two of them were well and truly drunk.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Laura saw one man break off from the group at the bar. He was wearing a green bowling shirt. Not the potbellied, hairy-chested man from before, but his slightly better-looking friend, built like a beanpole with a gaunt face. He sauntered up to the table and leaned down over them. His breath reeked of gin.

  “You ladies having a nice night?”

  Laura and Jasmine just stared at him.

  “Look, I wanted to apologize about Luke earlier.”

  “That’s your friend?” Laura said. “The one who looks like Ron Jeremy, only uglier?”

  The beanpole laughed. “Hey, that’s not too far off. I’m Jay, and he’s Luke. Luke just went through a bad breakup, and he’s got a lot of anger floating around in here.” He tapped his chest.

  “That’s not healthy. Here,” Jasmine pulled a card from her purse and slid it across the table. “Tell him to come see me sometime.”

  He picked up the card and read it. Smirked. “Therapy? You want him to, what? Talk about his problems?”

  “It’s a great way to work through those negative emotions,” Jasmine said.

  “I don’t know, I had a better idea. I was more thinking your friend here”—he pointed at Laura—“could fuck his brains out.”

  Laura froze.

  The man leaned closer to Jasmine until his nose was only inches from hers. “And I was thinking in the meantime me and you and that sweet ass of yours could go in the back.” He leered, letting his eyes roam up and down her body, challenging her to stop him.

  Jasmine, for her part, didn’t seem fazed. She put her chin in her hand and looked up at him, wide-eyed and innocent. “Wow, gee—do you suck your mother’s dick with that mouth?”

  Laura, in the middle of a sip from her drink, snorted, and a trickle of bourbon came out her nose. It burned, and she started a kind of half-laughing, half-coughing fit.

  Beanpole jumped back like he’d been stung by a bee. “You can’t talk to me like that.”

  “Oh, so you can talk about my ass like you’ve known it for years, but I can’t talk about your mother’s dick?”

  He jumped again, and his hands clenched into fists. “If you were my woman,” he hissed, “I’d show you what happens to girls who mouth off.”

  “If I were your woman,” Jasmine said, “I’d probably die of shame.”

  Beanpole’s face turned the color of a ripe plum. He glanced over his shoulder, then jerked his head. Laura followed his gaze and saw Luke in his cheap gold chain walking around the pool table toward them.

  “Jasmine,”
she said, and nodded toward his incoming friend.

  Beanpole grabbed Jasmine by the upper arm and yanked her to her feet. “Someone needs to teach you a lesson.”

  Everything seemed to happen in slow motion. In some recessed part of her brain, Laura noticed that her friend stood just a few inches shorter than the man pulling her. She kicked off her shoes, planted her feet, put both hands on his chest, and gave him a shove.

  His mouth opened in surprise and he stumbled backward, neither quick nor sober enough to recover from Jasmine’s sudden shift in momentum.

  Luke barreled around the corner of the pool table, and, like magic, a pool cue materialized in Jasmine’s hand. His eyes snapped open wide and he lunged at her. Jasmine took one step backward and brought the thick end of the cue across at shoulder height in a perfect baseball swing. The cue slipped over Luke’s reaching hands and connected with the side of his jaw. There was a wet cracking sound, and then he was on his knees, face in his hands, moaning.

  “Come on, before the rest of them realize what happened.”

  Jasmine grabbed her by the wrist, pulled her to her feet, and started moving toward the door. Outside the night air was cooling rapidly. The sweat on her brow and under her arms began evaporating, a pleasant chill running across her skin. They turned left and walked as quickly as they could without breaking into a run. A few seconds of silence passed between them. Suddenly they were both laughing, leaning on each other for support, barely able to stand from the hilarity of it all. Tears streamed down Laura’s face. She thought she had never felt so good.

  When the fits of laughter had passed, she said, “How the hell did you manage that?”

  Jasmine shrugged. “I’ve been playing sports since I was a kid, plus a few self-defense classes. I’m in pretty good shape, Laura. Not that I could say the same for them.”

  “God, the look on his face! Did you see it?”

  “Nope, I was too busy running out of there.”

  “I don’t think we can go to Hopsky’s anymore,” Laura said, and steadied herself on a light post. “I don’t think I can drive home, either.”

  “You mind sleeping on a couch?”

  She shook her head.

  “Then stay with me,” Jasmine said. She led Laura back to her apartment, silent and completely barefoot.