by Lisa Gardner
“Four.”
“Four?” Despite herself, D.D. was incredulous. “Flora Dane has killed four times before? What the hell—”
“Not killed,” Dr. Keynes interjected, voice firm. “This level of self-defense is a first.”
“What? She merely scorched the other ones? Seared ’em with a lighter versus full-on chemical fire?”
“Flora has been assaulted prior to this occasion. If you read the reports, you’ll discover that she responded with the appropriate level of force and didn’t face any charges.”
“She’s a vigilante. Your girl, your victim—”
“Flora Dane is a survivor.”
“Flora Dane is a nut. She’s going to these bars looking for trouble. And she’s finding it.”
Dr. Keynes didn’t speak right away. Smart of him, D.D. thought, because really, at this point, what was left to say?
“I’m going to pursue this,” she stated clearly. The room was small. Her voice carried and she let it. “Maybe case by case you can dismiss Flora’s behavior, but the overall pattern? With all due respect, Dr. Keynes, Flora Dane’s behavior is a threat to herself and others.”
“Let me be equally clear, Sergeant Detective Warren. According to Flora, she didn’t know the bartender Devon Goulding prior to this evening. She did not set out to meet him, nor did she engage in any activity that warranted him abducting her from outside a bar and tying her up naked in his garage. As for what happened after that, be very careful about blaming the victim. Flora doesn’t call me to bail her out; she’s never needed to be bailed out. What she does need is a ride home.”
D.D. stared at him. “Seriously. She called you, an FBI agent—”
“A victim specialist.”
“To give her a ride home.”
“There’s more to it than that.”
“You mean, such as, as long as you’re here, you can run interference with the police?”
“No, such as, as long as I’m taking her home, I can run interference with her mother.”
Chapter 8
I DREAMED OF FRENCH FRIES. Hot, golden greasiness. Salt-encrusted decadence. Licking them, smashing them, stuffing them in my mouth. I wanted dozens. Bagfuls. Boxes full. Dipped in ketchup. Smothered in mayonnaise. Coated in ranch dressing.
And a burger dripping cheese on a pillow-soft white bun and piled high with fresh-sliced tomatoes, onions, and pickles. I’d take greedy, gulping bites, sinking in my teeth, feeling the fat and carbs explode against my tongue.
I dreamed of food. As my stomach growled and my muscles clenched and I whimpered in physical pain.
Then, I woke up.
And I could smell it. Here, in the room. Full fast-food glory. Cheeseburgers. French fries. Chicken McNuggets. I could hear it too, the rustle of food wrappings, the pop of a straw being thrust through a plastic lid.
I think I whimpered again. There’s no pride in starvation. Only desperation.
Footsteps. Coming closer. For once, I prayed for him to step faster, advance more quickly. Insert the key in the padlock, twist it open. Please. Pretty please.
Whatever he wanted me to do. Whatever he needed.
French fries. The smell of French fries.
When he lifted the lid, I had to blink against the flood of light. From narrow beams through finger-size holes to a wash of bright white. My eyes welled. Maybe in response to the sudden onslaught of visual stimulation, but mostly due to the smell. The wonderful, intoxicating smell.
Memories. Hazy. Humanizing. Running through sprinklers on short chubby legs, laughing with little-kid glee as I tried to catch droplets of spray on my tongue. Then a voice, distant but familiar. “Tired, love? Let’s go get a milkshake . . .”
Fast-forward a couple of years. Fresh memory: hands age-spotted, shaking unsteadily as they set down the brown plastic tray. “Ketchup? Nah. Best thing on fries is mayo. Now, looky here . . .”
For a moment, I am four, or six, or eight, or ten. I’m a child, a girl, a woman. I am me. With a past and a present. With family and friends. With people who love me.
Then he spoke, and I disappeared again.
There was only the food, and I’d do anything for it.
He had to help me out of the box. I did my best to exercise as much as I could in the narrow space, but time had grown long and I didn’t always remember what I should do or if I’d already done it. I slept a lot. Slept and slept and slept.
Then I didn’t have to hurt as much anymore.
When I finally rose to standing, my legs shook uncontrollably. I hunched reflexively, as if expecting a blow, but I couldn’t blame my rounded posture on the box. I was always lying tall and straight in the box.
“Are you hungry?” he asked me.
I didn’t answer; I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to. Besides, my stomach growled loudly enough for words.
He laughed. He was in a good mood. Cheerful even. I found myself standing up straighter. He was cleaner tonight, I noticed. Hair damp, as if he’d recently showered. And he was steady on his feet, gaze clear, which wasn’t always the case. I found myself looking past him, to the battered gray card table. Food. Bags and bags. McDonald’s. Kentucky Fried Chicken. Burger King. Subway sandwiches. A fast-food banquet.
He’s bingeing, I realized. Food, not drugs this time. But why? And what about me?
“Are you hungry?” he asked again.
I still didn’t know what to say. I whimpered instead.
He laughed magnanimously. This room was his kingdom. I got that. Here, I was his property and he got to revel in his power. Beyond these walls, no doubt he was a Loser, capital L. Men disrespected him. Women laughed at him. Hence, his need for this room, this box, this helpless victim.
And now, this exercise in terror.
I moved, tentatively. I’d learned by now that his permission was all-important. And everything he gave, he could also take away, so I had to proceed with caution. When he didn’t object, didn’t reach out a hand to stop me, I closed the gap with the food-covered table. Then I stood, head ducked, hands clasped meekly before me. I waited, though it was the most painful waiting I’d ever done. Each muscle trembling, my stomach clenched unbearably tight.
“What do you want?” he asked.
I frowned, his question confusing me. I didn’t know what I wanted. I’d been trained these past few weeks to be no one, to want nothing. That was my job. Now, I was scared. Because the smell was intoxicating, overwhelming. I could feel my self-control slipping and I couldn’t afford to mess up.
Worse than starving would be to stand surrounded by food and still go hungry.
“You should eat,” he stated at last. He jabbed my bony arm, pinched a protruding rib. “Getting too thin. You look like crap, you know.”
He picked up the bag closest to him. Opened it up, waved it under my nose.
McDonald’s French fries. Hot and golden and salty.
I could hear my grandfather again. “Looky, kid, best thing on fries is mayo.”
I wondered if he was here to finally take me away. Except I didn’t want to go away with my grandpa anymore. I wanted to be right here, in this crappy room with this terrible man and these wonderful, greasy fries. Please, please, please let me eat just one single fry . . .
I’d do anything, be anyone . . .
The man was unrolling the top of the bag. Now he reached in. Now he lifted out a red container marked with a single golden M. Fries jostled loose from the open top. They dropped to the floor, the grimy shag carpet. I watched them land, fingers clasping and unclasping, my whole body tense.
He was going to eat them. He was going to stand in front of me and eat each perfect, salty morsel. Laughing, gloating, gleeful.
And I’d have no choice but to kill him. I would lose control, I’d attack, and he would . . . He would . . .
He handed
me the container. “Here. Seriously. For fuck’s sake, put some meat on your bones.”
I grabbed the fries. Both hands snatching up the red box. It wasn’t hot anymore. The fries were lukewarm, grease starting to congeal. I didn’t care. I tossed half the contents into my mouth, swallowing faster than I could chew. Food, food, food. Needed food, had to have food. God oh God oh God.
He started laughing. I didn’t look at him, kept my attention focused on the bag. I needed to eat. I had to eat. My stomach, my body, every cell screamed for sustenance.
My mouth was too dry, the smooshed fries too thick. I tried to swallow, but only managed to gag until my eyes watered. I was going to be sick, I thought, except I couldn’t be sick; I couldn’t afford to waste that many calories. I tried to force the food down, a giant glob of congealed potatoes. My eyes watered, my throat constricting painfully. My stomach heaved in protest . . .
He placed his hand on my arm.
I stared at him, stricken. This was it: He was going to take the macerated fries right out of my mouth. Reach in a finger and scoop out the only food I’d had in days. And that would be that. He’d return me to the coffin-size box and I would die there.
“Slow down,” he ordered. “Get some water. Take some time. Otherwise, you’ll barf.”
He handed me a bottle of water. I took tiny sips, bit by bit, breaking up the glob of food, swallowing it down. When I finally reached for the next handful of fries, he took the box from me. This time, he separated out each fry on top of the grimy card table. One by one, I picked them up. One by one, under his watchful eye, I chewed, swallowed, chewed again.
When the fries were gone, he opened up the fried chicken and handed me a drumstick.
We ate together. Me kneeling on the floor, him sitting in a chair. But we sat together, eating our way through bag after bag of food. I became full faster than I wanted. I threw up, my stomach protesting the very food it couldn’t wait to have. He didn’t yell. Just ordered me to wash my face, then handed me a soda.
He fell asleep on the sofa while I was still resiliently picking my way through a turkey sandwich. When I couldn’t take it anymore, when no amount of vomiting eased the pain of my overstretched stomach, I curled up on the floor next to his feet and dozed off myself.
When I woke up later, he was looking down at me.
“Girl,” he said, “you smell like fast food and piss.”
After another moment, he folded his arms, closed his eyes. “Tomorrow,” he grunted. “Tomorrow, it’s time for you to shower.”
And I was completely, utterly grateful to him.
Chapter 9
THE BLOND DETECTIVE DOESN’T WANT TO LET ME GO. She threatens to get a warrant to compel me to submit to a physical exam. Why not, if I’m telling the truth? A medical exam would only further corroborate my version of being attacked by Devon Goulding.
I think she’s a little hung up on the word corroborate.
No one is touching me. Not a doctor. Not a nurse. Not a vet.
When I make it that clear to her, that absolute, she seems to finally take the hint. She studies me long and hard, then agrees to my compromise: photos of the bruises on my face.
I understand what the detective wants. I understand what they all want. In this day and age, it’s not enough to claim to be assaulted. A victim must prove it. For example, the size of this bruise on my face matches the approximate size of my attacker’s fist. Or the one-inch laceration on my upper left cheekbone corresponds to the sharp edge on the perpetrator’s oversize class ring.
As for other areas of inspection, I’m very clear: There’s no need for a rape exam. Devon Goulding can blame the contents of his own garbage for helping me avoid that displeasure.
And I feared for my life. Waking up bruised, battered, stripped naked, wrists bound. I feared for my life. I feared for my life. I feared for my life.
Would you like my official statement?
I feared for my life.
Dr. Keynes and I don’t talk as he leads me to his car. Frankly, it’s all just been said.
* * *
WHEN I REGAINED CONSCIOUSNESS five years ago, Samuel was the first person I saw. He was asleep in the chair next to my hospital bed. He wore a charcoal-gray suit, jacket unbuttoned, red tie askew, left leg crossed over right.
His black dress shoes were shined to a high gloss. I studied them for a long time, mesmerized. Dress shoes. Men’s patent leather dress shoes. I almost couldn’t fathom the concept.
We discussed it later. One of our many conversations back in the day when I would talk to him and only to him. That something as simple as dress shoes could be so startling. As in, I was awake a good hour before I ever said a word, ever alerted anyone to my newfound entry into the land of the living. Instead, I simply lay there, staring at a man’s shoes.
A symbol of civilization, we decided at last. A note of beauty and culture and care.
In other words, his shoes represented everything that I’d lost. Everything I thought I’d never see again.
The brain has a way of simplifying complex thoughts into a single, simple symbol. Coping, Samuel would tell me. In the beginning, it was too hard for me to put into words everything I’d lost, everything I feared, everything I’d gone through. So instead, I fixated on a highly polished pair of men’s dress shoes.
“You called her,” I say now. Not a question. We’ve been through this drill too many times for that.
“You knew I would.”
Samuel drives with both hands. His hands are relaxed, fingers long and elegant on the wheel. He’s a shockingly beautiful man. Unsettling even. In the beginning, I held that against him. How can you take anyone, but especially a doctor, seriously when he looks like he should be starring in a Calvin Klein ad?
In the years since, I’ve come to understand better. We all have our burdens to bear, even someone as pretty as Samuel.
He doesn’t dress down, however. Or do anything else that might detract from his physical perfection. Far from it. I’ve never seen him in anything other than impeccably tailored clothes, hundred-dollar head shaves, and perfectly buffed nails. Even off duty, he looks like he stepped from the pages of GQ.
I think it’s his own test. I dress myself up in cool-girl trashy, waiting for the next asshole to take the bait. While Samuel presents himself as just another pretty face. Then, he waits for you to underestimate him, because in that moment, he has you, and he knows it. His car matches the rest of him. Acura SUV, black on black. Immaculate leather seats, freshly vacuumed carpet. I’m surprised he didn’t put down a towel before allowing me to take a seat. I might be immune to the scent of garbage, but he isn’t.
Maybe he’s planning on removing the cushion later and burning it. When it comes to Samuel, nothing would surprise me.
“If you’ve met one survivor,” he told me that first day in the hospital room, “then you’ve met one survivor.”
That’s what Samuel and I have in common: We are both survivors.
“Any chance she stayed in Maine?” I ask now, forcing my voice to sound light. I turn away from Samuel and look out the car window. Daylight is still shocking to me. All these years later, mornings remain a surprise.
“What do you think?”
I think he not only called my mother, but she’s now waiting in my apartment. I think I’d rather go back to the crime scene, duke it out with the blond detective again.
“What are you doing?” Samuel asks presently.
I smile; I can’t help myself. And I keep my face turned away. Samuel, of all people, knows me too well. Which is why I keep calling him. To remind myself that somewhere out there, someone knows who I am, even if I can’t always remember.
When I woke up that day in the hospital in Atlanta, my mother and brother were still en route from Boston’s Logan International Airport. Given that I had no friends or family in the a
rea, Samuel had remained in the room as a source of support.
The minute the FBI agents started asking all their questions, however . . . I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t talk; I couldn’t remember what they wanted me to remember; I absolutely, positively could not relive what they seemed to feel I should recall at a moment’s notice. Instead, I curled up in a fetal position and shut down. They tried kindness, impatience, and then out-and-out badgering. It didn’t matter. I didn’t talk.
I couldn’t.
Eventually, they left, under doctor’s orders to let me rest.
Only Samuel remained. He took his seat. Crossed his left leg over his right. And that was that.
He never said a word. I closed my eyes. I fell asleep. Or tried to. The room would spin away. Other images replaced it. Light and dark. Screams and laughter. The feel of shampoo in my hair. The smell of ammonia. The way blood soaks into cheap carpet.
I saw things I didn’t want to see. Knew too many things I didn’t want to know. And I had my first real insight into victimization. There’s no undoing. There’s no rewind, or erasing, or unmaking. The things that happened, they are you, you are them.
You can escape, but you can’t get away. Just the way it is.
I reached my decision then. I would tell my story once and only once. To Samuel. And then, that would be it. I would talk, he would listen, and then I would never speak of it again. For his part, Samuel wanted to ensure I understood that he was an agent of the police. Anything and everything I told him he’d be reporting back to the special agent in charge; he wasn’t my shrink; we did not have doctor-client privilege. But as long as I understood that, he would listen to whatever I wanted, needed, to say.
So I talked. The words rushing out, pouring out. One long, horrible deluge.
I spoke for hours. Nurses came, checked vitals, adjusted monitors, then scurried away. Dark agents appeared in the doorway, only to be hastily dismissed. I don’t know. I couldn’t take it in, the room, the equipment, the endless interruption of bodies. I kept my body ramrod straight, hands at my side, gaze on the overhead lights, and I talked, and I talked, and I talked.