Defiled

by Margaret Buffano

  At ten to seven, Helen backs her chair from her computer.

  “I’m hungry. …Are you hungry?”

  “I thought you’d never ask. …I’m starving!”

  Helen looks at the clock on the wall. “Cafeteria’s closed…been closed for more than an hour…anything in the snack room?”

  “Just cookies and chips,” moans Carol. “We can order a pizza?”

  “Pizza…? No, I’ve got a better idea. We just held my parents’ fortieth anniversary party at Chez Michelle…phenomenal French food! They’ve got a lobster bisque and a crème brulee that’s to die for. I’ll call in the order, if you go pick it up. It’s on me.”

  Helen calls in the order, while Carol puts on her coat.

  “Here’s the money,” says Helen, handing Carol a fifty-dollar bill, “and here’s the keys to my car.”

  “Gee, I’ve never eaten lobster bisque before. I’m excited!” Carol says, making for the door.

  “Don’t forget to get someone from security to walk you out,” Helen yells down the hall to Carol.

  Carol leaves at seven twenty. Helen returns to her work. Twenty minutes later, she looks up at the wall clock – she is only slightly concerned. But when another twenty minutes passes, she becomes worried.

  She calls Chez Michelle, and they tell her Carol has come and gone nearly half an hour ago. She calls down to security; there is no sign of Carol.

  “Maybe she’s having car trouble?” thinks Helen. She looks up Carol’s mobile phone number and dials.

  “Hola, Senora Haywood! It’s me…el huele todo!”

  She knows the voice immediately.

  “How are you, my little conchuda? I’m so sorry you’re not my guest, instead of this fat cow, but any port in a storm. Besides, this will teach you who’s in charge – not you, my dear.”

  “Let her go, you bastard!”

  “Sticks and stones, my love. …Sticks and stones…don’t bother me.”

  “I’m not afraid of you. …I’ll kill you…you son of a bitch!”

  “That’s good…I like my women sassy. But you sound so tense…maybe a little beso negro, might do you good? We need to get together soon. I have such wonderful visions. You…chupa mi pinga. …me…te voy a hacer la sopa. …Sound good?”

  “Let her go you animal! I swear I’ll kill you. …By God…I’ll kill you!”

  “Eh…esta vida es un asco. Hasta luego…my love.”

  There is a click in her ear and the frightening hum of disconnection.

  After phoning the police, Helen again finds herself confronted with questions from Goebel and Benson – most of it routine.

  The police find her car in the parking lot of Chez Michelle. Carol is missing. The driver’s side door is wide open, the keys still in the ignition. The overhead light is on, the car-door alarm is chiming, and the take-out dinner for two is on the passenger’s seat. They find Carol’s mobile phone blocks away, clearly intentionally crushed under a car wheel.

  They dust the car – nothing. They question the restaurant workers and valet, but no one saw or heard anything out of the ordinary.

  ***

  Following day, Helen finds herself once again in Angela’s office – sobbing. There is nothing Angela can say. No words of comfort will stop her from blaming herself for what happened to Carol.

  She can’t stop picturing the scene in her mind, over and over – two police officers standing in the doorway telling Don, Carol’s husband, she is missing, most likely kidnapped, and possibly dead.

  She weeps uncontrollably.

  “Oh…I do hope she’s dead,” cries Helen. “I know it sounds like a horrible thing to say, but I would hate to think she is still alive and with that madman. She’d be better off dead!” She starts to tremble. “Maybe, I’d be better off dead?”

  Angela writes her a prescription for her anxiety. Helen knows well enough not to argue with Angela about it. In her mind, she knows she will not take any pills; she wants to remain sharp for whatever is to come next.

  ***

  Helen wakes to the smell of breakfast coming upstairs. She looks over to the other side of the bed. Richard’s place is mussed, but there is no Richard. He must have come in late, got up early and is trying to surprise her with breakfast. Her robe lies at the foot of the bed. She puts it on and goes downstairs.

  Richard is in the kitchen doing his best not to burn three pans of eggs, bacon, and pancakes – there is a pot of hot coffee.

  “Smells good. …What’s the occasion?” Helen asks.

  “No occasion. …Do I need an occasion to make breakfast for my wife?” Richard puts down the utensils, takes her in his arms, and kisses her. “Well, maybe it is an occasion…more like a peace offering.”

  Helen looks confused. He sits her down and serves her. Then he sits down next to her and holds her hand.

  “I want to ask your forgiveness. I was wrong. After I heard what happened to Carol, I thought…that could have been you. I was wrong. I’ve put the gun your father gave you back in your purse…right where I found it…like nothing ever happened. Do you forgive me?”

  “Of course I do, darling.”

  Helen remembers Angela saying Richard only needed to heal and in time will come around again. She was right.

  “I’ve been such an ass lately, and I don’t know why.” he says.

  “It’s all right, honey.” She runs her hand along his arm. “We’ve all been through lots lately. It takes time to return to normal.”

  “But I don’t want to return to normal; I want everything better than it was. I want you happy. When you were pregnant, all I did was pressure you for an abortion. When you had the miscarriage, I showed more relief than caring. And all this time, when there was danger, I wasn’t there for you. That’s all going to change. I want to be the husband you expect me to be. I swear I’m going to try.”

  “Oh, Richard!” Tears fall from Helen’s eyes. To the sound of clattering plates, she somehow makes her way onto Richard’s lap. “Oh, Richard, I love you so much.” She begins to shower him with kisses.

  “I love you, too, baby,” whispers Richard. “You remember the first time we were in Angela’s office? I meant what I said…there’s still a chance we could have a baby together.”

  Richard tries to be macho and carry Helen upstairs to the bedroom, but for all his efforts, he can’t even get up from his chair with her in his arms. His effort is comical, and the two of them burst into laughter. It feels good to laugh together again. They laugh all the way upstairs.

  ***

  Richard walks out into the hall and looks into Francis’ office, half expecting to see her sitting at her desk. She is nowhere to be found. It isn’t like her to be so late – he thinks it odd.

  He receives a call from Detective Goebel asking him to come down to the station for further questioning. He assumes it is nothing more than more routine questioning.

  After following directions down a long corridor, Richard finds the Detective’s office door and knocks on it.

  “Come in,” he hears a voice announce from within. He enters.

  Detectives Goebel and Benson stand next to a desk, and there, sitting in front of the desk is Francis – his Francis. She turns to look at him. Her expression tells the entire story. Her eyes say, “I’m sorry, but I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “Sit down, Mr. Haywood. …I’m sure you know Miss Crawly,” Goebel says.

  “Don’t try to be funny, detective. You know very well about Francis and I, or you wouldn’t have asked her here.” Richard sits down in a chair next to her. She reaches over to him, and the two hold hands. “So…what now? You’re going to tell my wife? I don’t see the point.”

  “That’s not our job,” Benson says, “We’re not private dicks working on a divorce case. We’re city detectives working on an assault and rape case…and…maybe a kidnapping and murder case.”

  “Murder…? What the hell are you talking about?” Richard demands.

  “We were
hoping you could tell us,” Goebel smiles.

  “Listen, if you think I did anything like that, you’re crazy. I wouldn’t do anything to hurt Helen.”

  “How about having an affair behind her back?”

  “That’s different! You can’t blame a person for whom they fall in love with. Besides, I was planning to tell her a long time ago, but all this stuff started to happen. I’ve done my best so Helen would never suspect. We’re doing the best we can, under the circumstances.”

  “Oh yeah…you two deserve a medal,” Goebel says.

  “We’ve been talking with Miss Crawly here, and I’m afraid, she can’t vouch for your whereabouts on the night of Mrs. Haywood’s attack,” Benson says.

  “That’s not what I said!” Francis is nearly in tears as she speaks to Richard. “They asked me if we were together that night. I said I don’t keep track of the time we spend together. I just couldn’t remember.”

  “Of course you remember, darling,” pleads Richard. “Don’t you remember? It was the night we were drinking wine in front of the fireplace, and I received a phone call from the office, there was an emergency, and I was to call my in-laws. I waited at your place till enough time passed, and I then called and told them I was at the airport?”

  “I…yes…yes…now I remember!” says Francis, turning to the two detectives.

  “How convenient. …You remember after being reminded.”

  “It’s our word against yours,” smirks Richard.

  “There is a way to clear this up,” Goebel says. “We still have the DNA from the stillborn. If we were to get a blood sample…you could clear your name.”

  “No!” shouts Richard.

  “And why not? What are you afraid of? Just a swab of your saliva, and you could clear your name.”

  “Because, I have no need to clear my name. …That’s why! I’m innocent, and there’s no reason I need be on the defensive. I’ve done nothing wrong, and I’m offended from all these accusations. You idiots have nothing, and you can’t make me do what I don’t want to do.”

  “We can get a court order.”

  “Then get one! But, I’m not your dog to jump whenever you command. Now, if you two gentlemen have nothing further to tell me, I’ve wasted enough time.” He stands up and looks at Francis. “Come, sweetheart. Let’s go.”

  “Oh, you can go, but we have a few more questions for Miss Crawly.”

  “Remember…you don’t have to say anything. I love you,” Richard’s last words to Francis before he lets go of her hand and heads for the door.

  “Oh, Mr. Haywood,” Benson calls to him, “one last question.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Ever read Shakespeare?”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “Methinks thou doth protest too much.”

  “Go to hell!” He leaves, slamming the door.

  They wait a moment for Richard to be well on his way.

  “So, tell us, Miss Crawly, how did this love affair with Richard come about?”

  “Our offices are right next to each other. …It just happened. …We didn’t mean for it to happen. …It just did,” she speaks softly and sadly.

  “And what plans have the two of you made? I mean, did he mention anything about leaving his wife?”

  “Yes, many times, but he’s afraid something like that, right now, might even kill her! I mean…in the condition she’s in, after all she’s been through.”

  “I see. Tell us, Ms. Crawley, how much do you love each other?”

  “That’s a silly question. Why…with all our hearts, of course.”

  “You love him enough to do anything for him…even lie?”

  “But that’s just it! I don’t need to lie. I’m telling you the truth!”

  “And he loves you very much…enough to commit murder?”

  “That’s not true! Richard would never do anything to hurt Helen or anyone else for that matter. He’s not that way. He hates violence. He even took Helen’s gun from her, afraid she might hurt herself.”

  Goebel and Benson pause to look at each other.

  “Gun…?” Benson asks, “What gun is this?”

  “I don’t know…some gun her father gave her. He took it from her, afraid that in her state of mind she might hurt someone or herself. He showed it to me one night. Then when all that horrible business happened to that other woman…he thought it over and gave her back the gun. Now I tell you, if he didn’t care about her safety, if he didn’t want her able to protect herself…why would he give her back the gun? Why?”

  “That’s a good question, Miss Crawly. Why?”

  ***

  After Francis Crawly leaves the office, Goebel opens the top side drawer to his desk. He lifts a small recorder from the drawer. There’s a long cord connected to the recorder that runs along the side of the desk to a small microphone taped to the corner of the desk. Goebel presses a button to shut off the recording. He rewinds it and then plays it back. They hear Richard’s voice from a moment ago. Goebel stops the recorder again.

  “Well, we got it,” Goebel announces.

  “Yeah, and if his voice pattern matches the one on the message machine, we’ve got our man.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  International Nancy

  At the end of the day, it seems like it will be another late night of work for Helen. It feels strange and sad alone in the office without Carol. Helen can’t help thinking about her. She keeps expecting to hear her voice or see her come walking in at any minute.

  It has been a week since Carol’s disappearance. The police have not come up with even one clue. She calls Goebel and Benson daily, in hopes they learned something, but every day is the same. No one has any idea what happened to Carol.

  As sad as it may seem, Helen still secretly hopes she is dead. The thought her assistant, her friend, being alive and in the clutches of him is torturous.

  Helen is sure most, if not all, her coworkers think it strange she would come back to work so soon without missing so much as a heartbeat. She realizes it must seem she is heartless and cold – without feelings. But it is her feelings she is trying to get away from. So, as always, she hides herself from the world in her work. At work, she doesn’t have to think of anything but her job. Thoughts of what happened need pushing aside, or she is sure she’ll go mad. And as for guilt, there is more than she can carry. And fear – no matter how brave a front she puts up, her fear eats at her. She hates to admit it. On the phone, the night he took Carol, she told him she was not afraid of him – that is just a lie. She fears him more than death itself. But for Carol’s sake, she swears she’ll continue until his capture.

  She is getting hungry. She looks at the clock – it is seven. In the snack room, nothing in the vending machines appeals to her. She decides to be content with just a cup of black coffee.

  Walking back to her office, she realizes she has gone the entire day without once checking her office mail box. She looks inside. There are stacks of the usual memos, a few pieces of mail of no immediate concern, but what she does not expect is a small oblong package wrapped in brown paper, the kind that grocery bags are made of. Tied around it is brown twine. She looks at the address on the box – it is to her, all right. The writing is in pencil, and the handwriting is barely legible, as if a small child wrote it.

  She sits at her desk, staring at the package, afraid to open it. There is something not right about it. She is sure of it. Eventually, her curiosity gets the best of her; she knows she must open it and see what is inside. She takes her letter opener and cuts the cord. She carefully tears away the brown paper. It is an old cardboard box, soiled and torn. She opens it and finds herself confronted with something that brings up memories of long ago – memories not thought about since she was a child.

  It is a doll. Not just any doll – it is her doll. A doll she loved and cared for when she was a little girl. A doll she lost and has not seen since she was nine or ten.

  She takes i
t out of the box and examines it. It is a ragdoll. On its back is a pull string that no longer works. Its clothes – dress and stockings – are made of small, stitched-together flags of different nations.

  “International Nancy!” Helen says aloud. The name comes back to her in a flash the second she holds it. “But I lost you years ago…when I was little. Who could have had you all this time; and why would they return you to me now?”

  Helen isn’t sure what to do. She picks up the phone and dials.

  “Mom, it’s me. …You got a minute?”

  “Your father and I are watching something on the TV. …There’s a commercial on. …Why, is something wrong?”

  “No…nothing’s wrong, Mom. I just want to ask you something. Do you remember when I was little I had a doll…International Nancy?”

  “Why are you bringing that up now? The show is about to come back on.”

  “Please, Mom, think. …Do you remember the doll?”

  “Of course, I remember it. It was an ugly little ragdoll made of different flags or something. It had a string in its back, and when you pulled it, it spoke something in different languages. You loved that stupid doll…wouldn’t go anywhere without it. If you only knew the time I had trying to get you not to take it in the tub with you.”

  “Mom, do you remember what happened to it?”

  “Sure, I remember. You lost it. …You were about nine, I think.”

  “How did I lose it? Do you remember how and where I lost it?”

  “How could I forget? It was the last summer that your Uncle Jerry and his family came to visit. You know…Aunt Eleanor and their two boys. Oh, what were their names, again? Anyway, we went to Hourglass Lake, to Sandy Beach, for swimming and a cookout. You stayed much to yourself. Their boys were a couple of years older than you. And how you hated those boys…you hardly talked to them. So you stayed to yourself, walking up and down the beach and carrying that stupid doll…International…whatever her name was.