Undressed At Sea: A Psychological Thriller (Drew Stirling Book 2)

by Jayden Hunter

  “I don’t need anyone right now. I want to be helpful. My parents are back east. I’m not religious, and I don’t do therapy. My best friend, he’s like a brother, he’ll be here soon, but he doesn’t need to be involved in the police part of this. I’d rather just start while it’s fresh.”

  Drew told him about her experience. She swallowed at the hard parts and held back tears. Methodically she went over every detail she could remember. She described the boat in as much detail as she could. She had a good memory which had been sharpened recently with all her academic work. Each retelling of a specific aspect of her ordeal brought back more details. Some details were minor things, but Detective Turner reminded her more than once that every single little detail, no matter how small, could lead to a successful conviction.

  “Leave nothing out.”

  “I’m trying my best.”

  “I know you are. You’re doing great here. I know this is very difficult.”

  “I want to nail that bastard. He left me for dead out there. Hell, he was trying to kill me in the first place.”

  “It looks like you might have saved more than just your own life, Drew. You did very well. Can I get you anything, a drink maybe?”

  Before she answered there was a knock on the door and Ben spoke her name.

  “Come in, Ben,” Drew said.

  Ben Davis walked in and looked at the plain clothed detective with a surprise. “Hi, I’m Ben.”

  “Detective Turner.”

  Turner shook Ben’s hand and then looked at Drew. “I’m going to ask that you not discuss details of this case with anyone. Please. It’s vital we don’t get anything out there that can turn into a rumor.”

  “What case?” Ben looked confused.

  Drew broke down. She sobbed and cried like a terrified child.

  Ben hugged her. He sat on the edge of the bed and held her hand.

  She wept for several minutes.

  “I’ll be okay. Really. I just can’t tell you everything right now. But I will. I promise. I’ll be okay. Trust me. I’m lucky to be alive. I love you. Thank you for bringing me clothes.”

  “That’s nothing. I’ll do anything you need. I love you too, but you don’t seem okay.”

  There was a short knock on the door and a doctor walked in.

  “Hello, Drew. I’m your doctor, Judy Tanner. How are you feeling?”

  “I’ve been better.”

  “Can we have some privacy, please?” the doctor asked. She looked at the men, and they left the room.

  Doctor Tanner informed Drew that the nurse had notified her of the rape. She asked for a basic timeline, to the best of her memory, as it related to her being in the ocean.

  “It was hours before. I’m not exactly sure how long. I was swimming for a long time before I found something floating to cling to. I was in the water for a long time, but it’s impossible for me to know how long. My memory is fuzzy. And I fell asleep while I was floating. I’m lucky to even to be alive.”

  “Yes. You’re very lucky. I heard that a child spotted you. That much has been on the news. He thought you were a mermaid. I sedated you after we got you stable yesterday. You were agitated, anxious, and you were not talking. You were crying hysterically and trying to get out of your hospital bed. You ripped out your IV. I’m sorry, but I felt I had to keep you from hurting yourself. I had no idea you’d been a victim of a violent crime. I thought you’d been lost at sea, fallen overboard, and that you were only dealing with that kind of trauma, which is enough in itself. Had I known otherwise, we would have acted differently.”

  “I understand. What can be done now?”

  “You were in the ocean for a long time. We had to put a catheter in. I checked with the nursing staff, and looked over your charts; there was no visible sign of trauma. Being at sea, we wouldn’t expect any remaining—any remaining semen, or other evidence. Even some trauma would be masked by a long salt water soaking. Do you recall if your attacker was wearing a condom?”

  “No, he wasn’t. Goddamn bastard.”

  “We could do more testing, and examining, but it’s invasive and unlikely to produce anything. It’s too late to do a standardized kit, although I can’t tell you if the police will still ask, they probably will. If they do, and you object, I’ll speak for you. But, it’s best if you can try to stick to their procedures. They can be intrusive, but they’re just doing their jobs. They are trying to help. We’ll have to screen for disease — I know that’s not what you want to hear — but right now... I don’t want you more anxious. There’s nothing more to be done at the moment. One step at a time. I’m going to order you Xanax; I want you to sleep as much as you can. Of course, you’ll want to cooperate with the authorities, but stay within limits that you feel comfortable with. Your health is our priority here. If I think you’re being overtaxed, I’m going to order that you be left alone at least until tomorrow. You need to sleep and let your body heal.”

  “I’m okay. Really. I want to help. I want to stop that bastard.”

  Drew felt fresh tears. It was as if her IV was only there to replenish them.

  Doctor Tanner took her hand.

  “Woman to woman, I want you to help get him. But speaking as your doctor, I must insist that you don’t overdo it. No jeopardizing your health. Understood?”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  Drew nodded and found a small smile. She watched her doctor leave the room, and she started to imagine what people would have thought if she’d never come back. If she’d disappeared again, how many people would have thought it another publicity stunt?

  Ben came in by himself and gave her a hug.

  “I have to go. The detective said he needed more time with you. I’m not going far. Call me. If you need anything—”

  “Thanks, Ben.”

  “I love you, Drew.”

  ...................

  Detective Turner returned after Ben left and he sat next to her bed for nearly thirty more minutes. He entered notes into a laptop. He occasionally referred to his handwritten notes, and he often stopped to asked Drew to clarify details, points, times, and sequences of events. He asked about times of day; things said, and even the colors of items such as blankets, towels, and dishes. He wanted to be sure he had an accurate written description of the inside of the boat.

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Enter,” Detective Turner said.

  A man wearing a suit walked in. He had brown hair that was cut short and conservative. His face was handsome, a boyish face with cute dimples, like parentheses around a winsome smile. If he’d been wearing a name badge, Drew would have mistaken him for a chaplain or a Mormon missionary.

  “I’m Special Agent Rick Stevenson.” He held out his hand to Drew.

  “Drew Stirling. I’m just special.”

  She showed him all her teeth and felt a little bit like herself for the first time that day.

  He repressed a smile. But he did grin for a moment, and Drew caught him.

  He turned towards Detective Turner.

  “Detective,” he said while shaking his hand. “Thanks for the heads-up. How are we doing?”

  “Looks like we might have our guy. I’m going to hand the ball off to you. I’ll listen and take notes. Maybe you’ll ask something I missed. Drew, are you okay going over this again?”

  “I know it’s a lot to ask,” the FBI agent said to her. “But it’s critical to do while things are still fresh in your mind.”

  “I understand.”

  Drew began talking. The second and third time she went through events more details, things she’d forgotten, came to her memory. She retold the sick and twisted events of her weekend of abuse at the hands of Professor Ryan Mills as straightforwardly, and with as little emotion, as she could.

  Special Agent Stevenson listened with compassion.

  He asked more questions and took more notes.

  “You’ve got a good memory.”

  “I want to nail that fucking
prick.”

  “So do we, Drew. So do we.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Me miserable! which way shall I fly

  Infinite wrath, and infinite despair?

  Which way I fly is Hell; myself am Hell;

  And, in the lowest deep, a lower deep

  Still threatening to devour me opens wide,

  To which the Hell I suffer seems a Heaven.

  O, then, at last relent: Is there no place

  Left for repentance, none for pardon left?

  ~John Milton

  My mother attends a church that has me on a deliverance prayer list. Any drunk, child beating, worthless bastard, who accepts Jesus, is going to heaven. But I’ll be sent to hell because I never saw the evidence for this supposed God-King that loves the world. Fine, I’ll accept my fate. I hope all the rapists, murderers, and general scum accept Jesus. Hell will be Paradise.

  ~ Drew Stirling

  ...................

  Ryan cried. He bawled for nearly ten minutes. Deep sobs erupted from inside him like a dormant volcano coming to life.

  Randy Hawkins remained silent.

  They sat together without speaking while Ryan regained his composure. He wiped his eyes and nose with Kleenex. He breathed in deeply, exhaled, and sipped water from a cheap paper cup.

  He crushed the cup in his hand while breaking the silence.

  “I need help. I want help. I can’t stop myself.”

  “Help with what, Ryan?”

  “My problems.”

  “Please share.”

  “First I need to be sure. I’m worried about the...”

  Ryan looked to the floor. Then he looked at the ceiling. He blew his nose into a tissue and coughed. He fidgeted like a seven-year-old who needed to pee. Finally, he looked at his therapist expectantly, as if there were magical answers to his problems.

  “You’re worried about what exactly?” Hawkins asked.

  “The authorities.”

  “Okay. Reporting requirements. I’ll go over them again. If you disclose to me that a specific person is in danger, I must report that. Say if you tell me you are going to leave here and kill your boss, or even if you threaten suicide, I am required to report that. I’m not required to report non-specific threats. Say that you mention you feel so mad at your wife sometimes you feel like you could kill her. That’s not a specific threat. We all feel those thoughts sometimes. Do you understand?”

  “Yes. But what about prior actions?”

  “You mean if you confess to murder or violence?”

  “Yes. I mean, what if someone comes to you and describes robbing a bank or confesses to rape?”

  “I cannot report a confession, think of me as being like a priest or a lawyer. The exception is if the victim is a minor, I’m required to report sexual or violent crimes against a specific child. I cannot report anything if the minor is unspecific, nor can I report the actions against a minor if the victim is now an adult. They’d have to report this themselves. Are you clear on this?”

  “I think so.”

  “And you’d like to talk about something?”

  “Yes. I think so. I need to use the restroom. And I need a coffee.”

  Ryan went to the restroom and stared at the sterile white walls as he urinated into a porcelain fixture that smelt like mint. His mind was like a ball of string after it had been played with by a cat. He wanted to run away, but he also wanted help. He wanted to be cleansed. He washed his hands with soap and hot water. He stopped when he realized he was scrubbing his arms to the elbows. He turned off the water. He dried his hands. Then he turned the water back on and splashed his face.

  He stared at the image in the mirror. He wished he could push a button and cease to exist. No more pain. No more anguish. No more victims.

  A faint remembrance of a childhood episode came to him.

  “You little pussy. Quit being a faggot.”

  He shoved the sentence away, like it was a disease, and turned off the water after washing his hands again. He left the restroom, poured himself another cup of coffee, and returned to his seat across from Randy Hawkins. He wondered if he could really and truly trust him. He must, he supposed, or else he was certainly doomed.

  Randy did not speak.

  Ryan sipped his coffee and stared at the wall.

  He finished half of his overly sweetened coffee before broke the silence.

  “I want to talk about a girl. I mean a woman. She was an adult.”

  “Was?”

  “Yes.”

  Ryan started crying again.

  “I don’t want to blame my father. I did this. I’m sorry.”

  Randy did not speak.

  In the silence, Ryan became uncomfortable and acted to fill the void.

  “She started out as a friend. Sort of. I liked her. She is — she was — the kind of woman that my wife isn’t. Gorgeous, stunning, beautiful. Outspoken, sexy, but not dumb like many of the stereotypical blonde model types are. I thought she’d be interested in me, but I knew that was just a fantasy. I tried hard to keep her in two separate parts of my mind, one a fantasy, one not a fantasy. Friend in real life, lover in my fantasy life. But it didn’t work. She was too much of a temptation. I had to have her. I had to. I had to fuck her. I couldn’t stop myself. I would have died inside, exploded, if I didn’t take her. It’s all that I thought about. It was affecting my work.

  “I was obsessed. I see that now. That’s why I need help. I can’t go on like this. I feel badly. What if I get caught? Where will I be then? What will happen? I can’t face that. I need to stop. What should I do? What can I do? Do you see? It’s not the real me. I’d never kidnap a woman to have sex with her and then...”

  “But you did. Isn’t that what you are saying?”

  “I guess so. I guess it’s me. I hate myself. I wish it was me at the bottom of the ocean. Being eaten by crabs. I deserve to die; I know that.”

  “Tell me what you think about personal responsibility and being held accountable for your actions.”

  “I don’t know. Of course, I do. I mean, yes, people should be responsible for their actions. But what about when someone has two sides to themselves. Like part of them is good, decent. I think I’m a good teacher. I’m good at my job. I help people. I’m a good husband and provider. I’m a good citizen. I pay my taxes. I don’t rob banks.”

  “But you kidnap, rape, and murder young women? And you don’t see that as being something a good husband wouldn’t do? Or a good citizen?”

  “I understand the incongruity.”

  Silence stood between them like a taut net between sets in a tennis match.

  Randy Hawkins bit his lower lip and asked Ryan if he could continue.

  “Sure. I feel better. Just talking. Getting it out there. Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me for that. I’m not here to help you feel better about rape and murder.”

  “What then? What’s next? What do we do?”

  “I’d like to see you more than once a week. I’d like a phone call every day. I’m in an awkward position here. My professional obligation is to help you, and I do intend to do that. But...”

  “But what?”

  “But never mind. Just call me tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Arrogance corrupts.

  ~ Toba Beta

  Arrogance trumps.

  ~ George Albramo

  ...................

  Ryan sent a text message to his assistant asking him to cover his early classes; he needed the rest of the morning to himself. Absentmindedly, nearly missing several turns, he drove home. He chastised himself for not being more cautious; he didn’t want to get into an accident. Or, maybe, he did. He heard thoughts in his mind that sounded as if someone were speaking to him from the back seat.

  “Pull across traffic. A head-on will end it quickly.”

  “Find some train tracks.”

  “Go to the boat.”

  “Get a drin
k.”

  “Find another little cunt to fuck.”

  “Stop.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  Fuck.

  He believed that he wasn’t completely crazy because he felt bad. He understood remorse and knew that he actually felt ill over the things he’d done.

  I know regret what I did.

  “Pussy.”

  No, I was wrong.

  “Pussy.”

  Maybe he was only telling himself he felt bad because he wanted to be normal?

  Feeling bad was something normal healthy people felt when they’d done something wrong. He tried to imagine if he had a way to know if his feelings were actually remorse and regret, or if he was only worried about being caught and stopped. He didn’t know for sure.

  How could I?

  It’s not as if a person can actually feel the feelings of others to gauge against their own feelings. At least, that’s what he thought. He acknowledged that he didn’t know. And maybe that was the answer.

  He fantasized about how he’d end his life.

  I could take a bunch of sleeping pills with alcohol. That would be painless.

  He could shoot himself, but he didn’t own a gun.

  Drive in front of a train and stop on the tracks?

  No, he would be afraid of the pain. And what if he survived?

  The boat was the answer. He would drink enough to be stupid and then attach a chain to himself and jump.