by Mary Deal
“This theory would explain the differences.” That would be why Megan would try to imitate Becky's art, building a role of impersonation, depending on the persona she might need.
Det. Britto leaned back in the padded booth and stared pensively up into the rafters, then suddenly came forward again. “Besides those TV shows, the agencies, ma'am, the groups that find missing people—”
“I listed myself, quite a few years before Joe and I met.”
“They couldn't have helped, Britto. Not if Megan looked for family named Winnaker.”
Maybe searching for family was a lie. “Gang members wouldn't think of listing. They don't care about that stuff.” Of that, Abi was sure. Still, if Megan was really Becky and had listed herself as Fisher, she would have made the connection. Maybe the inmate wasn't smart enough to think it through in her time of need.
“She led me to believe she wasn't involved with gangs.” Joe sat shaking his head. “If only I had thought of the search agencies back then. I could kick myself now.” The magazine photos meant Seaport would have been the logical place for Becky to begin a search, in spite of the name differences. If Megan knew Becky and had a chance to contact one of those agencies or found Abi's listing for her missing daughter, she may well have played into the scenario to get herself some help.
“Don't punish yourself, Joe.” She patted his shoulder lovingly to reassure him. “None of that can be changed now.”
“Abi, you and I can always make things change.”
Abi's anxiety eased. Despite his pesky distractions, Joe still intended to help. She leaned against his shoulder, sorry for having doubted him.
The restaurant was beginning to fill with the noontime crowd. The waitress squeezed through the throng balancing a tray and served their lunches. Abi only stared at hers, a cold turkey sandwich that stood in the way of them leaving to visit the inmate who still had no definite identity as far as they were concerned.
Chapter 23
The still strong mountain winds bent trees. Det. Britto led in his sedan. Abi and Joe crested a rise leading into Rachter Valley, a large hollow devoid of plant growth, secluded and confined; a place to contain the state's most wayward women. Around its perimeter was a twenty-foot fence topped with continuous rolls of razor-barbed Concertina wire. Forty-five feet inside that was a second fence. In each of the corners nearest the forested areas, watch towers stood high overlooking the entire facility from multiple directions.
The entire facility was single-storied. Several smaller conjoined buildings stood in front of the concrete structure at the back. The front buildings were probably the administration section. Tall narrow slits for windows in the sprawling rear building signified the prison block. The parking lot outside the gate seemed overcrowded with cars.
At the gate, a guard stepped out of the booth. Det. Britto's arm stretched out of his car window, showing the guard his ID. The guard waved him in. Joe stopped at the gate and he and Abi produced their IDs. After Det. Britto's vehicle entered, the outer gate closed behind him. Then the inner gate opened, allowing him to drive into the inside parking lot. Once the inner gate closed, the outer one opened again and the guard signaled Joe to proceed.
A separate enclosed double gated walkway bordered the vehicle gate. Inside the grounds, a few more cars were parked at the opposite front corner near the delivery entrance, also double gated. Everything seemed secured, locked down tight.
Inside the prison, they decided Joe would see Megan first, to prepare her for meeting Abi. She, Det. Britto, Megan's attorney and several guards and prison officials peered through a one-way window into the visiting room.
A dozen round tables, each with two chairs, each opposite the other were the only pieces of furniture in the otherwise large empty room. The size of the tables kept visitors and prisoners apart. For all the security, the lack of separate meeting cubicles and private phones was lenient.
Joe had his back to the viewing window and sometimes blocked Abi's view of Megan's face. Megan blew her nose and coughed a lot and sometimes put her head on her arms and hunched forward over the tabletop.
After the visit, Joe came out looking quite disturbed. “She's frail and far more bitter than I remember.”
Abi noticed that the guards paid close attention to their conversation. “Wouldn't you be if you were innocent and fighting a losing battle?”
“How did she take it, Arno, about a woman looking for her missing daughter.”
“She snickered.”
“She won't see me?” Abi's voice quieted the crowded room. If Megan was guilty, it was likely she would exhibit some subtle arrogance, some pretense, perhaps.
More prison officials crowded into the viewing room. When they held the door open, others stood in the hallway. Despite the number of people crowding in, the room seemed as cold as it had been outdoors.
“I tried to convince her you might be able to help her.”
That could be an idle promise. Abi turned to the guard at the doorway. “Can I see her now?” She glanced at Megan's attorney who leaned against the back wall like a limp rag.
“Your bag, please.” The guard held out his hand.
“My purse?”
“It's not allowed in the visiting room. Your friend can hold it.” He motioned for her to hand it over.
“I have to….” Abi reached into her bag, “…have to have these.”
The officer read the label on the small medicine bottle and raised an eyebrow. “I guess that's okay.” He handed her purse to Joe.
Was it really a matter of luck that Megan and Becky might be one and the same, or lucky if not?
Abi headed through the doorway knowing exactly what she had to do. The door shut behind her. The lock slipping into place sounded final. Abi's heels clicked on the polished concrete floors. She wore a chic navy pantsuit hoping to convey a relaxed attitude, but also one that would give the inmate confidence in her ability to help.
The poorly ventilated room smelled musty and was empty except for her, Megan, and two guards. As expected, everything, including the chairs, was painted a dull lifeless gray. Blurred sunlight streamed in through the miniscule barred windows high up near the tall ceilings but did not illuminate much.
Abi stared at Megan's face. She had only a few short minutes during which she could possibly change both of their destinies.
Megan watched her but broke her gaze when she coughed and had to blow her nose. Behind Megan, back by the wall, one stout female guard stood looking like a bulldog preoccupied with something in the air. The other stood by the rear door with a tiny glass window embedded with wire mesh.
Megan hacked and coughed and spit phlegm into a handful of tissues. Abi sat down slowly, looking into the face of the young woman who might be the daughter she had not seen in twenty-three years. Yet, the young woman resembled neither her nor Preston.
Abi remembered Becky's dark eyes resembling hers and slanting downward on the outer corners. Megan's eyes were round and wide open. Perhaps their lackluster quality was caused by her condition, but her pupils were not black like Becky's were. The computer-aged likeness of Becky came to mind. It showed a nose much like Abi's. Megan's nose was definitely flatter at the bridge and broader at the nostrils and was certainly not like Preston's long straight proboscis either. If this were her daughter, Becky could have changed since being five years old, but Abi couldn't tell with Megan being in such an emaciated condition.
Shiny black curls, like Becky had, bounced loosely all over her head each time she moved. The dark hair framed eyes that looked frightened and were moist from the infection she carried. Her chest labored as she breathed.
Other than the hair and complexion, Megan Winnaker bore no resemblance to the vibrant child Abi remembered. Megan's face was sharp and sculptured. If she were Becky, her sickness could have eaten up the cheeks so full and round they invited a playful pinch. As required, Abi placed her hands on the tabletop and clasped them together.
“So you're looki
ng for your long-lost kid.” Megan spoke between gasps of air. “Everybody's looking for someone.” Up close, she looked like a stick figure in an oversized orange jumpsuit.
Abi cringed. If Megan knew she was about to receive help, she should at least make an effort to be polite. “My name is Abi.” She began cautiously, rather than pounce for lack of time.
“So what?” Megan wheezed. “What is it you… think you can do for me that this… this photographer guy couldn't?”
“I want to know more about you, Megan.” She was barely able to speak the name.
“Who are you anyway?”
Due to Megan's attitude, Abi wasn't sure now how to begin. The questions, the conversation she had envisioned only that morning seemed foolish. “I understand you don't remember much about yourself before the age of five. Is that right?”
“No one remembers walking around in diapers.”
“Of course not, but children don't wear diapers till age five. They've learned a lot by then.”
“One thing I don't need…” Her breath came out in long wheezes. “…is a lesson in child rearing.” She breathed as if trying to hold enough wind to vocalize a complete sentence. “Don't you get it? I'm not living the kind of life to have kids.”
Abi felt insulted by Megan's reaction, but held her tongue. “You must remember something, something special?” Abi looked at the inmate's left cheek and found it smooth and sculptured, just like the right side.
“Why do you keep looking at… the side of my face?” Megan put a hand up as if to hide her left cheek, as if it had once been habit.
Abi stared intently into Megan's eyes and saw something click. Abi's heart skipped a beat. “Why did you do that?”
Megan dropped her hand and seemed embarrassed. “Something I remember.”
“Can you tell me?”
“When I was ten or so.” She had great difficulty breathing.
Abi's senses were on high alert. She detected a change in Megan's demeanor. “What happened?”
“Dermabrasion. My dad made me get this… dermabrasion procedure.”
“What for?” Abi already knew dermabrasion was never the treatment for removal of a large mole. “Dermabrasion?”
“That's what I said.” Megan's voice contained a bite. “And then laser surgery for… for acne. When I broke my nose in school, I had surgery for that too.” She looked hard at Abi. “Then they pulled my jowls up to stretch out what dermabrasion and laser couldn't get rid of.”
“Is that when you developed the habit of covering your face?”
“Wouldn't you want to cover your ugly stitches and bruises?”
Megan sounded defensive and angry. She was probably recounting some of the most vivid memories she clung to. All the surgery, the changes, could have been Preston's way of keeping her unidentifiable. Where on earth had Preston found a butcher who would operate on someone so young? “Why dermabrasion, Megan? You've got beautiful clear skin.”
“My skin was… scarred.”
Both Abi's heart and her intuition began sending messages. “What kind of scars?”
“Who the hell cares? You think anyone's going to be looking at my face when they stick… stick that needle into my vein?” Her face reddened as she struggled to speak and breathe at the same time.
While Megan imagined the worst, Abi had a revelation. Perhaps the mole had been removed much earlier. If not removed properly a mole that size would leave a huge crater. “Did your dad do something that caused the scars that required dermabrasion?”
“My dad never touched me.”
Sadness welled up into Abi's throat. She felt a great urge to comfort the woman who might be her daughter. “Was he good to you?”
“Well, he never touched me.”
“Did he hurt you, Megan?”
Megan seemed angered. “I said—”
“Forget it!” Abi caught herself. “I'm just wondering what kind of scars you had that made your dad put you through those horrible procedures.”
“I always had it… as far back as I can remember.”
Megan had said it when referring to the scarring. One scar. Abi's heart flopped again. Sure, she would have had a scar that far back if Preston had the mole removed immediately after the abduction. Of course, Megan would not remember anything other than growing up with a scar on her cheek. She had blocked out the removal, just like the rest of her first five years.
Every bit of information that surfaced about this young woman hinted at her being Becky. Abi's heart thumped erratically. She looked around for her purse and then remembered the vial in her pocket. She fumbled nervously with the cap, finally able to retrieve a single nitro tablet. “Excuse me, Megan.” She quickly inserted the pill under her tongue.
“At least… you're going to die from… natural causes.” Megan sounded pitiful. Then she began to hack again, doubled over, gagged and spit into the wad of tissues.
The guard behind came forward and checked her condition. “She'll have to go back to the infirmary soon.”
“Oh, please, please, a few more minutes.”
“Winnaker?” The guard placed a firm hand on Megan's shoulder. “Winnaker? You up to this?”
She couldn't answer because of the coughing, so she waved a hand. The guard stepped back. Megan straightened up again and looked straight into Abi's eyes. “Joe, the photographer… said you could help me. Unless you've got… something earth shattering to tell me… I'm leaving.” The more she tried to sit upright, the more tired she looked. Her strength was ebbing, her attitude deteriorating. Abi had to do something fast in order to get some concrete answers. “When's your birthday, Megan?”
Megan looked confused. “Well, September ninth, if you're designing my tombstone.”
The birthday could have been switched as well. Abi persisted. “Megan, do you know the name Becky Ann?”
Megan's eyes widened into an incredulous stare. Finally, she asked through clenched teeth, “What is this?” She coughed again. “You're supposed to help me. All you ask are moronic questions?”
“Please, just think a—”
Curiously, she looked away. “I don't know a Becky Ann. And unless she's the one who threw the damned brick… who the hell cares?”
Abi's moment of truth waned. She could go away and come back again when Megan felt better. That would mean more time wasted. What could she do right now, while she still had Megan's attention? She could only sit and stare and wish for a miracle, but none happened. “I'm sorry I bothered you.” She took one last look at the young woman. Thinking a mole had left a scar that resulted in dermabrasion was an exercise in futile hope. As far as the rest, this girl could have had a sadist for a father and it still would not make her Becky Ann. In desperation, Abi had tried to read too much into the situation. She decided that Megan was not her daughter and expected a wave of relief to wash over her. None did. She stood.
“Where are you going?” Megan reached toward Abi. “I thought you were going to get me out of this hell hole.”
Abi paused, not knowing how to apologize for having given her false hope. “I thought I'd find some answers too, but you're not the person I'm looking for. You're not my Bippy.”
Megan's eyes widened again. She gulped air. “Wait!” Her voice screeched. The sound echoed off the walls. “Wa-ait!” She coughed pathetically. “What did you call me?”
All of Abi's strength left her. She gripped the edge of the table for support. “Do you know that name?”
“Bippy. You called me Bippy.” Megan stood and the guard came to attention.
“Sorry.” Abi spoke softly, resigned. “I meant to say Becky.”
“No, you said Bippy!” She still screeched. “My dad told me never to say that.”
Abi gasped and felt her knees going weak. “Never to say what?”
“Bippy… Bippy!” Megan looked like she was trying to remember. Then her face lit up. She almost smiled. “Bippy, Bippy. You're my Bippy.” She sang in the sad, singsong voice of a child,
then began to cry.
Abi's knees gave out. She nearly missed the chair when she collapsed. The room began to spin. She felt her arms drop from the table and everything began going black.
A rush of people came at her and Joe helped her stay in the chair. “Becky.” She could only mumble. “Becky.”
Both guards held Megan in her seat. “Sorry.” One guard waved her arm, signaling to clear the room. “Some of you are gonna' have to leave.”
Det. Britto stepped away from the huddle around Abi. “Hey, get it, okay? The woman's got a heart condition.”
Joe stood beside her chair. “And she's just found her daughter.”
“Her daughter?”
“Yes.” Joe motioned toward Megan. “She's not Megan Winnaker. Her name's Becky Ann Fisher.”
“Mommy?” Megan cried like a child as she clawed the table while being held back by the guards. “You're my mommy!”
Megan tried to free herself but could do little. A third guard burst through the rear door. “Time's up, Winnaker. I think we've seen enough.”
“No, please!” Megan looked wide-eyed, begging. “She's my mother. I've found my mother.”
“Bippy?” Abi reached across the table. She wanted desperately to touch her daughter but the diameter of the table separated them.
Guards still held both of Megan's arms. Mucous ran from her nose and her eyes watered. “Tissues, please.” She turning her face to the guards. “Tissues.” She had calmed somewhat and they freed her arms so she could sit but stood close beside her. After blowing her nose, she turned again to face Abi and screeched. “You deserted me! You walked out on us!”
In the time it took for Megan to blow her nose then regain her composure, Abi regained hers. “No, Becky Ann. Preston kidnapped you. He changed your names. He changed your face. You're Becky Ann Fisher. I'm Abigail Fisher… your mother.”
A look of recognition came over Megan's face. She touched the side of her cheek as if remembering. Her demeanor changed in a flash. She halfway stood and gripped the edge of the table, looking like she might jump up onto the tabletop. “Mother! Help me!” The guards dragged Megan screaming from the room. “I didn't kill anyone! I don't wanna' die!”