The Follower

by Koethi Zan

  At first he considered refusing to speak, but that was a fast train to a long-term disability leave. He would cooperate just enough to keep his job, but he didn’t intend to make it easy.

  ‘You tell me, Dr. Lyle. I’m reasonably sure you’ve got it written down right there in your file.’

  She nodded calmly. He could see her recalibrating her initial assessment of him. She jotted something on her notepad that he imagined to be ‘Difficult’ or maybe ‘Resistant’.

  ‘Okay, fine. Let’s try this again.’

  She took a sip of coffee from the oversized mug that had been sitting on the low table between them.

  ‘We’re here because you’re having a bit of a tough time. You’ve been drinking. Why don’t you tell me about that? What’s happening?’

  He took a deep breath.

  ‘I guess you’d say I was having some … trouble dealing with the Sloan case. I didn’t get there in time. A few hours sooner and that kid would still be alive. And we still don’t even have a suspect.’ His voice cracked. He cleared his throat to cover it.

  She calmly wrote in her notebook, then lifted her eyes to meet his, waiting for him to go on.

  ‘Well, I said it. Isn’t that enough?’

  Dr. Lyle leaned back in the chair, obviously enjoying lording her power over him.

  ‘I understand. That’s hard. Really hard,’ she said.

  He shifted in his seat and looked through the frosted privacy glass of the narrow window onto the street where he could see the outline of his car. He wished he could get in it and drive until he hit some border. Any one would do.

  ‘Homicide is a tough beat.’ Her voice came out of nowhere, summoning him back to the room. ‘Not everything can be solved,’ she continued. ‘People get away with terrible crimes sometimes. It’s often very hard for police officers to accept that.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I won’t accept it.’ He studied his shoes. They could use a good polish. Maybe he’d get to that this afternoon.

  They sat in silence.

  He knew she already had the details. She had Google, didn’t she? It was the third hit when his name was searched.

  ‘It’s because of my sister. That’s why it was so bad for me,’ he said, finally raising his head to look her in the eye.

  She put her coffee cup down. Oh sure, now she was interested.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘She’s dead too.’

  Dr. Lyle didn’t flinch. So he was right. She probably knew every gritty detail but she wanted to force him to say the actual words, maybe burst out in tears and have some cathartic emotional breakthrough right here in her office. Wouldn’t that just complete the picture?

  ‘I see. I’m sorry to hear that. Perhaps you’d like to tell me what happened?’

  Adam propped his elbows on his thighs and rubbed his face. He needed a drink, that’s what he needed. Not this bullshit. But fine, he’d give her the gory details. Just put it out there and be done with it. See what she’d think of that.

  ‘She was abducted,’ he said flatly. ‘Seven years old. Out riding her bike and then, whoosh. Gone. Four feet tall. Long blond hair, blue eyes. Last seen in pink terry-cloth shorts and a white T-shirt with sparkles. Shoes that lit up.’

  Dr. Lyle said nothing. Her pencil was still.

  ‘How old were you when this happened, Adam?’ She asked it very quietly.

  ‘I was nothing.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘I mean, I wasn’t born yet.’

  ‘So you never knew her?’

  Adam looked up at her sideways. ‘Obviously.’

  Silence again. He sighed.

  ‘I know what you want me to say.’

  She gave him a questioning glance but said nothing. He could hear the clock ticking off a minute, then another. He couldn’t stand just sitting there like that.

  ‘Yes, Dr. Lyle, I feel like I knew her. Yes, even though she was gone. They never took anything down: all her school pictures, her drawings taped to the fridge, those little gold trophies everybody gets for participating. Her bedroom is still exactly as it was, a pink, fluffy shrine. Why, yes, Dr. Lyle, if you’re asking, she is still more real to my mother than I am.’

  He inhaled sharply. He hadn’t meant to say so much and didn’t know why it came out that way.

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  He took another deep breath and let it out slowly.

  ‘I guess what I mean is that there wasn’t much of a mother left for me when I came along. My dad worked all the time, avoiding us all. My mom holed up in her room for years with the TV blaring. Just stayed in bed with a whole lot of wadded-up tissues around her, crying and watching soaps and stuff. She’d come out every now and then and practically crawl to Abigail’s room.’

  In his mind he saw the image flash of her hands, covered in blue veins even then, hanging on to Abigail’s lacy curtains, shaking as she cried.

  ‘She would, you know, fold and re-fold Abigail’s clothes. Then she’d just sit there –’ he stopped, wiped his face with his hands – ‘smelling them.’

  Dr. Lyle handed him a tissue. He blew his nose, closed his eyes, and then tried to lean back nonchalantly.

  ‘There. Satisfied? Deep dark secret right there out on the table for you to dissect. What have you got?’

  He sat up straight again, kind of interested to see how she’d respond.

  ‘I think it’s too early to—’

  ‘Oh, come on, Dr. Lyle. You can do it. Lay it on me. I know what you’re thinking.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Yeah, I can just imagine what words you’ve jotted down on that piece of paper. Something about my mother, right? Maybe something Oedipal?’

  ‘No, not Oedipal. I think your mother went through a terrible tragedy and that may have impeded her ability to emotionally bond with her second child, but—’

  ‘You’re thinking attachment disorder, aren’t you?’

  ‘I didn’t say that. I don’t think we need to be talking about disorders. We don’t need to label anything at this point. Let’s just talk. See where it takes us.’

  Adam didn’t want to see where it would take him. He didn’t want to go back to that room again. It was bad enough that he’d spilled his guts about his sister in that first session. And why had he sounded so angry? That wasn’t how he felt at all.

  Imagine what he might say if he kept going. All those thoughts, all those stories that would live in some official file in the police building. Confidential, sure, that’s what they said, but nothing was safe when somebody up the chain had some so-called compelling reason to see it.

  No therapist would make him stray from his mission anyway. He knew in his heart he’d been given life specifically for this purpose, to restore karmic balance to the world. He’d slipped this time, he’d let his emotions get carried away. But he’d get back on track. His sister might be gone – he’d given up any hope for her return – but he could save someone else’s. He would right the wrongs. He would find lost girls or at least solve their murders. He would punish every man like the one who had so brazenly dared to take his sister. These men. These killers. Stealers of children and innocence. He would sacrifice his entire life to this cause, and if he could save just one girl, it would make it all worthwhile.

  CHAPTER 7

  Cora sat at a small metal table beside the stacks with her contraband open in front of her and in her hand a little slip of paper with the Wi-Fi code. She hunched over the laptop under the hum of the fluorescent lights, glancing around now and then to make sure no one was watching.

  Her knowledge of computers was limited. She’d used the library’s occasionally to look something up for the farm, but didn’t have an email account and had only the faintest idea about social media. Luckily, as soon as she entered the code, the computer located the library’s Internet service. Once she was connected, new emails flooded in, the computer pinging quietly with each one. She scrolled to the one farthest down in bold, dated September
23. Like so many of them, it was from this Mark person.

  Where r u? Why didn’t you call last night? Worrying here.

  It was followed by several more, each progressively more frantic. Cora understood. These were from the day after Julie had gone missing.

  She scanned the list. There were dozens of names on emails received over the course of the following days, mixed in with plenty of others announcing 50-percent-off sales with special coupon codes and the like.

  The personal ones started off confused, but not desperate. No one seemed willing to accept at first that things had gone quite as horribly wrong as Cora knew they had. Then they escalated.

  Julie, why aren’t you answering texts? Did you lose your phone?

  Hey girl, did you forget our lunch date?

  Honey, please call us. Wondering where you are. Need to talk about travel dates.

  If you’re getting this, Julie, please know that we are looking for you with the police and FBI. We will find you, wherever you are. Hold tight, honey. We’re coming to get you.

  Darling Julie, NO STONE WILL BE LEFT UNTURNED. We’re ALL looking for you. We love you and will never give up on you. Never. WE WILL FIND YOU.

  And then, as her friends and family appeared to accept that there’d be no response, the personal emails drifted off, leaving only those from the Gap or West Elm or Zulily, promising the best buys of fall.

  Cora shivered. Even though they seemed to be looking in the wrong places – Westchester, New York City – it scared her to imagine all those official forces out combing the earth, looking for the girl in her upstairs bedroom. She pictured uniformed officers with guns drawn, scaling the walls of the house, bashing in through the windows to rescue her. She’d never imagined anything like that before. Not for that other girl. But this one? They’d do anything for her.

  Cora forced herself to breathe more slowly. The emails terrified her, but she couldn’t stop reading them, one after the other. So many people cared so much about this girl. People loved her in ALL CAPS. No one had ever loved Cora like that.

  Next she went to Facebook, where she was greeted with a startling close-up of the girl, her name in bold letters underneath. The text below the header was bright red:

  This page is now administered by Friends of Julie Brookman, a non-profit formed by the Brookman family to bring her home. Julie was last seen just before midnight on September 22 at the Mamaroneck Metro North Station, southbound track, wearing a brown leather jacket, black T-shirt and jeans. Julie has reddish-blond hair, green eyes, is 5' 7" and weighs 120 pounds. She has a small scar on her left inner thigh, just above her knee, and a dark birthmark about an inch and a half long on her right shoulder. Please notify the Mamaroneck Police Department if you have any information, no matter how small or insignificant it may seem. Julie, we love you!!! And to the hundreds of people who have come together to help us and pray with us and donated their time, energy and funds to the cause, we thank you with all our hearts.

  The picture was not a good likeness, her face fuller and happier, her eyes shining with warmth. She didn’t look like that anymore.

  Someone had posted links to news accounts and provided regular updates on the search. Cora read through a few and it calmed her down. They knew nothing. No one had spotted James or his truck. She sighed with relief at their useless efforts, but the feeling of reassurance trailed off into a creeping sense of foreboding. They might not know anything yet, but they wouldn’t give up easily. There’d always be a shadow over her life now because of this girl.

  She clicked the photos and the screen filled with a wall of images that made her feel lightheaded. She leaned in closer. They were incredible. She’d never realized regular people got to have a life like that.

  Many of them showed the girl with her arms around an attractive young man with brown hair and light eyes. He was tanned, broad-shouldered and his teeth blared out at her, impossibly white. Mark, apparently.

  There were pictures of the two of them on white sandy beaches, on a gleaming sailboat in the Caribbean, on a red lit-up carousel, at a stylish bar with sparklers glowing on a cake held between them. Pictures with hordes of entitled young people hanging on to each other possessively, all as attractive and wealthy-looking as her, mocking Cora with their collective gaze.

  There she was in a cap and gown, her parents beaming at her on either side. There was one of her on stage under a spotlight in a gauzy pink tutu, en pointe, with one leg lifted up straight as an arrow behind her. In the next she appeared thoughtful, gazing out at the ocean from her perch on a jagged rock, her face delicately framed by the final golden streaks of the day’s sunlight.

  Cora touched the screen, tracing Julie’s image with her fingertip. This privileged and precious creature. This person who mattered and counted.

  One image struck her particularly hard. It was Julie alone, standing on a cliff that loomed out over a lush tropical rainforest. It must have been taken within the last year; the caption told her it was in Costa Rica. Julie wore khaki hiking shorts, a pale blue T-shirt, and a backpack. A black bandana held back her hair and her arms were lifted up over her head in a giant V for victory. Of course that’s how she felt. Victorious.

  Cora wouldn’t know about that, now would she?

  She had an overwhelming impulse to print this one and take it home with her as a small token of her power over this girl. A symbol of how the universe restored its balance.

  It wasn’t a good idea. It was far too risky. If someone saw it, how could she explain printing out this picture of a girl whose face must surely be plastered over newspapers, Internet boards, missing posters, and milk cartons?

  She couldn’t. There was no explaining any of it.

  But still.

  The printer was less than ten feet away in its purpose-built nook. She could see the output tray from where she sat. It wouldn’t be all that dangerous.

  It took her a while to figure out how to print, but she managed it. Her plan was simple: hit return and then discreetly gather her spoils. Two seconds and it would be done. Nevertheless, she sat there, unmoving, her finger hovering over the enter key, thinking how James would kill her if he found out.

  But no, it wasn’t a big deal. She shouldn’t be such a coward.

  She took a deep breath, let her finger drop, and watched the printer for signs of life.

  Nothing happened.

  She waited a few seconds more and then pressed the enter key again. She silently counted to ten. Still nothing.

  Annoyed, she held the key down with her thumb, listening for its inner mechanism to engage. The computer told her the job had been sent, but the printer sat there taunting her with its implacable silence.

  Why was it taking so long?

  She had no choice. She’d have to ask.

  Cora closed the computer and gathered up the cord, clutching them to her chest, and went to stand in line behind two others at the circulation desk. It felt like hours waiting for those imbeciles to ask their inane questions about some John Grisham novel and the Saturday reading program for tweens, while she kept her eyes on that god-forsaken printer that remained as unresponsive as ever.

  Finally, it was her turn.

  ‘Excuse me, but I sent something to the printer and it doesn’t seem to be working.’

  The pasty-faced girl with glasses gave her a vacant stare – where did they find these people? – until slowly the situation seemed to dawn on her.

  ‘That printer?’ she asked, pointing to the beast in the nook.

  ‘Yes, that one.’

  ‘Ohhhh.’ The word came out long and slow. ‘Yeah, did you see the sign?’

  ‘The sign?’

  ‘There’s a sign on top of it. Maybe it fell off. That printer’s out of order and all print jobs are being rerouted to the one upstairs. In the Social Sciences section.’

  Cora felt all the blood drain from her face. The girl stared at her, looking confused.

  ‘There’s an elevator.’ She pointed to th
e right.

  ‘Thank you,’ Cora whispered.

  She somehow managed not to run.

  How many times had she sent that document to the printer? That face, repeated over and over, would be implanted in some stranger’s mind as they paged through the print jobs in frustration.

  Cora reached the elevator and hit the button hard. It took forever but finally lurched forward and rattled its way up to the second floor. She hit the door with her palm and finally, after several agonizing seconds, the elevator bell dinged and the door slid aside.

  She raced through the stacks into the reading area. There stood an even row of oak tables, each with four matching wooden chairs and two bankers’ lamps. Half a dozen people were scattered about the room, books open, papers askew, seemingly engrossed in their own business, but how could she be sure of that?

  She spotted the printer in a small alcove tucked in the corner and held her breath as she approached it. It was twice as big as the one downstairs. It could have churned out a hundred copies of the girl’s wretched face by now.

  But there was nothing in the output tray.

  She went numb. Did someone take it?

  She glanced around the room again. One of these people must know. One of them must be watching and waiting to see who came to that machine to retrieve the pictures of the missing girl from Mamaroneck.

  There was a small table with a wire basket on the far side of the printer that she hadn’t noticed at first. A piece of paper was taped to the wall: ‘10 cents per copy. Pay at circulation desk.’ The sign next to it, the one that hung over the basket, read: ‘Place found print jobs here.’

  She swallowed and took a step toward it, the fear lodged in her throat like a stone. Her mind almost would not accept what she saw, for there, on top of the stack of papers, directly under the sign’s arrow, was Julie’s beaming face.

  Someone had seen it.

  Cora glanced around furtively. Maybe they were watching her, but if so, they were being sly about it. She flipped through the documents. Julie’s face appeared and reappeared in between spreadsheets, a lost-dog poster with pre-drawn tabs for tearing, and a specials menu with a crab-cake appetizer at the top. She sorted through the pile, checking and double-checking it for stray copies, slipping them into a new stack. She counted sixteen.