by Wendy Walker
I have never met Fran Sullivan in person. Our paths do not cross socially. But she is a large personality in a small town. It is impossible not to notice her.
It is said by many that Fran Sullivan made her husband what he is today. I believe this to be true. I believe that she saw in him a large ego with a huge appetite and that she knew she could use this hunger to her advantage. They had grown up together in Cranston. Lower middle class. Sick of the struggle. Sick of the wealth just miles down the road that was out of their reach. Fran did not attend college. Fran worked as a secretary, helping Bob pay for Skidmore. Bob got a job in a car dealership. He came home every night with his stories about stolen commissions, ass-kissing, backstabbing—they were gladiators in the Colosseum, these salesmen. They are notorious, aren’t they? Car salesmen? Fran had a brilliant mind, a cunning mind, and no conscience whatsoever. In every battle, Bob Sullivan was the last man standing.
Of course, this is all speculation on my part. But I cannot be far off.
Fran also knew that with a large, hungry ego came the need for other women. Younger women, prettier women, more successful women. Think famous sports celebrity with low-life strippers. Why does a man risk everything just to have one more woman tell him how much she loves his big, hard cock? Fran understood men and their egos.
And so when she decided it was time for Bob to run for office—the first office in a line of offices she dreamed would march them right into Washington one day—she hired the private investigator to document his dalliances.
This is how she explained it to Charlotte:
She said it was worth the risk. Having those tapes and photos. She knew she could pay the PI as much as he would be offered by any media outlet. She had already bought his loyalty with years of solid income. She kept them all. Each tape, each photo of her husband with other women. She said they were her insurance policy for two possible storms. The first against any allegations of force. I guess she didn’t want a repeat of what happened when he was on spring break. Can you imagine? She was home working her ass off, and he went on spring break in Florida. Anyway, the second storm was if he ever tried to leave her.
Bob had affairs with dozens of women over the years. There were tapes and photos of them. Some were one-night stands. Some were strippers. Others were staples, like Charlotte. The investigator planted recording devices in the locations where Bob was a regular. The showrooms. Lovers’ bedrooms. The friend’s place in Cranston. The Kramers’ pool house. He also kept a device in Bob’s briefcase. Most of them were voice activated. Some he could get only when he was in radio range, and so he followed Bob any evening he was working late or attending a sales dinner. He gave the recordings and hard copies of the photos to Fran, who kept them in a safe deposit box. A spare key was held by her sister in Hartford.
Fran followed Charlotte to the grocery store two days after Bob said “fuck you” and left. She waited in her car until Charlotte came out with her bags.
I was putting the bags into the trunk when I heard her say my name. I turned around, and my heart nearly stooped. She had this big smile on her face. It was so big and sweet that it was terrifying. I said hello, how are you, what a surprise, and all of that. I’ve known her for years. Obviously, we’ve had many social functions and work parties. We even played golf at the company’s annual outing. She helped me with the bags, and then she just walked to the passenger side of my car and got in.
“You must have been very scared.”
You have no idea! She didn’t say anything. She just sat there, staring at me until, finally, she pulled out a small tape player. Then she let it play. It was Bob …
Charlotte broke down, remembering that moment.
“Wait, stop.…” [female voice, worried]
“What?” [male voice, alarmed]
“The bathroom door … It’s closed, but under the door … I think the light’s on.” [female voice, whispering]
[rustling, then silence]
[loud female scream]
“Oh dear Lord! Dear Lord!” [male voice, terrified]
[female screams]
“Help her! My baby! My baby girl!”
“Is she alive? Oh shit! Shit!”
“Grab a towel! Wrap her wrists, tight!”
“My baby!”
“Wrap them! Tight! Oh dear Lord! There’s so much blood.…”
“I feel a pulse! Jenny! Jenny, can you hear me! Hand me those towels! Oh dear Lord, dear Lord, dear Lord!”
“Jenny!” [desperate female voice]
“Call 911! Jenny! Jenny, wake up!” [male voice]
“Where’s my phone!” [female voice, shuffling]
“On the floor! Go!” [male voice]
[footsteps, shuffling, female voice speaking to 911, giving address, hysterical]
“You have to go! Right now! Go!” [female voice]
“No! I can’t! Dear Lord!”
I stared at that machine, listening to the recording of that horrible day. My baby! All that blood!
“My God. She was recording you,” I said. I am not easily surprised. This one did it.
For years. She had dozens of tapes. That’s what she told me. And then she pulled out a second tape and she played that one.
“Where are your parents?” [male voice, sexy tone]
“They’re out.” [female voice, flirtatious]
“Mmmm.” [male voice, a heavy moan]
[rustling, kissing sounds]
“I’m gonna fuck you so hard while your mommy and daddy are away.” [male voice, aggressive].
“Oh no. But I’m a good girl. I can’t.” [female voice]
“You didn’t hear me, did you? I’m going to fuck you right now. I’m going to bend you over and pull off your little pink panties.” [male voice]
[female gasp]
“No, stop, don’t . . [female voice]
It was disgusting. That man is a disgusting pig.
“Who was this woman he was with?”
One of the girls from his dealership. Lila something. She’s twenty years old! That makes her nineteen at the time. And he’s known her family for years. He plays golf with her father!
“And why did Fran Sullivan want you to hear this tape—out of all of them?”
Because this was recorded the night of the wine dinner at the club.
I had suspected as much—that Bob was with another woman that night. But I had not counted on there being hard evidence. I had counted on Bob not wanting to disclose his whereabouts and the woman being equally reticent. I had counted on more time.
This is where he was that night. He wasn’t raping my daughter. He was raping someone else’s.
“But you said it was all role play on the tape.”
She’s a child. He’s fifty-three years old. Call it whatever you want.
“I see. I’m very sorry, Charlotte. He certainly has turned out to be a horrible human being. I still don’t understand why she played those tapes for you.”
Blackmail. Plain and simple. She said she was bringing the one tape from that night to the police, Detective Parsons. The lawyer is going to ask for a confidentiality agreement before they hand it over. It clears Bob, and she wants to do it quickly and quietly. She still thinks she can keep this from the public eye. She said something like, “I imagine you will hear about this from the detective, one way or another. And I imagine it would make you feel scorned. Bob did sell you a bag of goods, didn’t he? Love, right? Might feel good to expose him? Humiliate him? Destroy his career?” Then she said, “You do your part and let this go. And in exchange, I will do mine and keep the tapes of you with my husband to myself.”
“I see. So Tom won’t find out.”
Yes. She said one last thing. “We are in the same boat now, aren’t we? If these ridiculous allegations about your daughter continue, all of this will come out. All of it.”
“So what will you do?”
Charlotte looked at me with that momentary but brilliant melding together of defeat and b
lind courage. It happens when there is nothing left to lose.
I’m going to tell Tom myself. Tonight. I won’t let Fran Sullivan tell me what to do. She can go straight to hell. You were right. I need to sit with the pain. I need to live through it. That’s what I’ve been trying to do since I saw Bob. Since he said “fuck you” and left.
“I’m very proud of you, Charlotte. That takes a lot of courage.”
There are two things I can tell you now: First, Charlotte had been lying to me when she said she had been working on her feelings about giving up Bob. Second, Charlotte would not have the chance to tell Tom that night. Tom would not be home.
Parsons called me shortly after Charlotte left. It seemed Fran Sullivan wasn’t messing around.
Sullivan’s cleared. I thought you should know. Whatever led you to believe that he might have been involved, well, it’s a mistake.
“Really? What happened?”
I can’t disclose the details. But I can tell you that he gave us an alibi. It ain’t pretty, but it checks out.
Parsons met with Fran Sullivan and the lawyer. She did not play the tape for him, but rather told him what was on it and encouraged him to speak with the young woman. Of course, Parsons wound up at her parents’ house. They were told about the incident only after forcing their daughter to explain the presence of the police at their door. Their longtime friend, the father’s weekend golf buddy, fucking their daughter for over a year. The father was so distraught, it took Parsons an hour to calm him down. I would learn all of this later.
“I see. Well, that must be a relief,” I said to Parsons.
I guess. But let’s just say this is one messed-up world.
“So where does that leave you?”
Well … it leaves me where I was before. With Tom Kramer crawling up my ass, no answers, no suspects. Just one blue sweatshirt and one photo from a yearbook. Oh—but there was one thing.…
“What’s that?” I have to admit that I was not truly listening at this point. Time was running out on the Bob Sullivan ruse, and without a media frenzy, lawsuits, and the other goodies that would have made everyone close up shop and go home. I was not looking forward to plan B.
There is a case from Oregon—one of those phone calls my guys have been making, you know, to the local precincts around the country? Well, this old-timer remembered a report about a kid with the same kind of scratch on his back. A straight line, deep carving right above the pelvis. It was a long time back, but he said he would try to find the file in storage. Doesn’t remember any rape involved, but it might be something.
“I see. Well, it sounds like a stretch, doesn’t it? I mean, this was a rape primarily. Not an assault with the rape as some sort of incidental. And it’s the other side of the country. Don’t you agree?”
Alan, I’m gonna finish every last lead on this case.
Yes, well. We shall see about that.
Chapter Thirty-three
This is what happened the night of the collision. The night the roller coaster came screaming down the hill. The night the cotton candy was almost complete. There will still be a few strands left to wind after I tell you.
This is what happened the night Bob Sullivan died.
Charlotte had lied to me. I know why and it is not important. She was not able to go home and sit with her pain after she quit Bob. She had his words in her head. “Fuck you.” She had the strong suspicion that he had raped her daughter in her head. That was my doing, but also a consequence of the shock that comes when you learn the truth about your lover. When “I love you” becomes “fuck you,” the mind mitigates the pain by casting the lover as the most despicable villain. None of this could be swallowed down. That pill had been too bitter, and she’d found herself choking on it that night.
She cannot claim innocence. Just like me with my box of matches, Charlotte knew Tom was at the end of his wits about finding Jenny’s rapist. She knew that he did not sleep. She knew that he could barely manage to eat. That he had stopped doing anything enjoyable, of feeling anything joyous. Even with Lucas and Jenny. It was all an act, a ruse. His halfhearted cheers at a lacrosse game. His smiles when he greeted them in the morning. He was in a state of acute discomfort.
It had been my plan for him that if he could survive this discomfort, he could come out the other side a changed man. A man accepting of the demons that lived inside him. That is the process. That is the road to being well. It was the same road for Charlotte, now that she had given up Bob. But Charlotte had revenge at her fingertips, and she had chosen to employ it.
She left my office and went home that day. This was before she knew Bob was innocent. Before Fran Sullivan sat in her car and played those foul tapes for her. She was angry at Bob and, more important, had been wondering if he had raped Jenny. She waited until the kids went to bed. And then she told him.
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. That Bob Sullivan, my boss, a friend to my family all these years, was a suspect in my daughter’s rape. You had put the idea about a new suspect in my head, Alan. It made sense that a new suspect was the reason they weren’t interested in the photograph from the yearbook. I tried to find out from Parsons, but he wouldn’t tell me. But Charlotte did. She told me about the girl years ago. And about his missing alibi, his lie to the police. But it was the part about Jenny hearing his voice—that’s what made me believe. I could have killed him that night. I sat in bed fantasizing about killing him. About taking a baseball bat from the garage and crushing his skull.
I went to Jenny’s room after she was asleep. I went on her phone and I read her messages, texts to and from that soldier she’s been friends with. The one from the group who had this dreadful treatment in Iraq. And I saw it. The words. “I think it was him … I hear his voice in my head.” There are dozens of texts from the past two weeks. No one told me. I guess now I know why. Still, everyone knew except me, didn’t they? You, Jenny, Parsons, Charlotte. Everyone but me.
Tom sat with his anger the whole next day. But that was all he could take.
I knew he would be at the Jag showroom that night with a client. I ate dinner with the family. I ate my entire plate. Steak. Potatoes. Green beans. I ate everything, and I was hungry for more. It was the first time I’d had an appetite since my daughter was violated. I told them I had to finish some paperwork at the showroom. I kissed my wife on the lips, a long kiss. Long enough to surprise her. I kissed my children on their heads. I hugged them tight. I knew it was the last time I would see them like this, in our home. I walked down the stairs, as clearheaded as I’ve ever been. I got the bat. I put it in my car. And I drove.
Tom was not the only man on the road that night.
I had not seen Sean Logan since he told me how he felt about Bob Sullivan. How he, too, believed that Bob had raped Jenny and how he had come to view him with the same hatred he held for the enemies in Iraq. Bob was the terrorist. Jenny was Valancia, the rookie he was supposed to protect. He had been so very frustrated by our lack of progress. We were stuck at that red door, and he needed to know—did he cause the death of his colleague, the man in his care? That torment was now directed at Bob Sullivan.
I see it now. How I had taken that rage and placed it on another man, another situation that I could do over again. I couldn’t protect Valancia. But I could protect Jenny. I had been feeling better. You remember, how I was able to feel love for my child because of the power I had to help Jenny? You made me understand that. But that power, it was ignited by the thing with Sullivan. The thought had been building in me for days. This power had exploded. I didn’t come to our sessions, because I knew you would see it in my eyes and try to stop me. The only thing I wanted to stop was the agony—Jenny’s and mine. One way or another, it had to stop. I loaded my gun. I left a note for my wife in the bottom of a drawer. I figured she would find it eventually, but not that night. I spent the day looking for him, following him, until it was dark. I watched the showroom for hours, waiting.
Tom stopped his car a f
ew blocks from the showroom.
My heart was beating wildly. I thought it would burst—or it would bust out of my chest. I was hyperventilating. Air was coming in, but I couldn’t feel it. I was suffocating on my own breath. Thoughts were jumping out at me. Do it! Voices screaming. Images of my baby girl in those woods. Images of Bob fucking that young girl on the car. Everything was melding together. But I didn’t move. I heard my parents talking about me. My wife chiming right along. “He won’t do it. He doesn’t have the courage.… Not everyone can be a soldier.… We all have to accept our limitations.…”
Sean watched the client leave. When his car was out of sight, the headlights fading away, Sean got out of the car, released the safety on the gun, and began walking with conviction toward the showroom.
I had the first vision when my feet hit the ground. It was clear as day. That street. An old man with a pipe. Three kids with a ball, still now as they stare at me. The street is frozen. No one moves. No one runs. I saw them. And not just from the things you read to me. I saw new things, different things from that day. From that street with the red door. I stopped walking and shook it off. I looked at the lights in the showroom. I made my plan for an ambush. I saw a way in. A door on the side that was cocked open. Maybe from a mechanic earlier. I focused on the mission.
Sean was having a recall. The emotions, the gun in his hand, the focus on the mission, the intent to kill—these were the things we could not simulate in our sessions. And now that they had arisen, they were leading him back to the memories from that day, that last mission.