by Terri George
I was stuck in that sterile room for hours, being subjected to the final humiliation of the most intimate of examinations. Standing passively as the doctor photographed my body, drew blood, combed and pulled out samples of my pubic hair, took swabs and smears. Then laying spread-eagled as she peered through the metal contraption she said was called a colposcope to get an up close and personal view of the damage done deep inside. The body has a remarkable ability to heal itself so it’s nothing time won’t cure, but damage nonetheless.
The doctor was nice; talked in a soft tone, explaining everything she was doing and why. She was trying to be kind, but the pity I saw in her eyes as she looked at me, probably imagining all the things he did to me, only magnified everything I’ve been through.
I suppose I’ll have to get used to that look. I’ll be seeing it a lot. Although Shari seems understanding, sympathy isn’t what I’m seeing in the stare of her fellow sheriff.
Of course I always knew the authorities would have to question me, so I expected this, but does sheriff Strub have to be the one doing the questioning? His mere presence is intimidating.
Still, all I have to do is remember that I’m the victim, get through this and then it will all finally be over, and I can go home. Because that’s all I want. To go home.
Sheriff Strub picks up my notebook and flicks through the pages. “According to this, Jensen Scott watched you at all times. So when did you find the time to write this without him knowing?”
“When I was locked in my room. At night when he was asleep.”
“Why did you keep a journal?”
“To write down my thoughts. It’s supposed to be cathartic. And to leave a record of what he did to me.”
“Is that what this is? The story of what happened?”
So we’re going for confrontational right off the bat are we? I’d expected that, knew it could be a possibility. The Special Relationship between our two countries is a myth. I’m still a foreigner accusing an American citizen of an outrageous crime.
It’s curious though. Given Strub didn’t hesitate to shoot – and not just to incapacitate, you’d think he’d want Jensen to be proven to be a kidnapper to justify him going for the kill shot. So why is he playing devil’s advocate?
I wonder how Jensen’s doing. Is he still critical? Is he hanging in there or rallying, fighting for life? No one’s telling me anything. Would they think it normal that I want to know if I ask, or would it look suspicious?
“I didn’t say ‘story’, I said a record. I’m the victim.”
“We only have your word for that.”
I hate to give him the satisfaction but can’t help the tears that well. “You don’t believe me? You think I made all this up? Why would I do that?!”
“You came all the way here just to meet Jensen. You wouldn’t be the first girl to change her mind about having sex and cry wolf. Or rape.”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing and from the look on her face, neither can Shari.
“Eugene, can I have a word? In private.”
Sheriff Strub looks decidedly put out, but still he gets up and follows Shari out of the room.
Their voices are too muffled for me to hear exactly what they’re saying – or rather what Shari is saying because she does most of the talking, but I do catch the occasional word like victim and sensitivity.
It all goes quiet the other side of the door and I hear footsteps moving away.
A good five minutes later Shari returns to the room. Alone.
She hands me a plastic cup of coffee. “They only have machine coffee here so it’s probably disgusting, still I figured you could use it.”
A sip confirms her suspicions. The brown liquid in the cup is barely recognisable as coffee.
“Sheriff Strub won’t be sitting in on our conversation. So it’s just you and me.”
“Conversation?”
“Yes. Eugene may have other ideas, but this isn’t an interrogation, Abbey. I just need you to tell me what happened.”
“Have you read my journal?”
“Yes… I’m so sorry, Abbey. No one should have to go through that.”
“Well then. You know what happened.”
“That you met Jensen on Facebook and came to the states to meet him in person.”
“Yes.”
“From what Cristina’s told me about you, Jensen doesn’t sound like your type, but I understand the appeal of the sexy bad boy – I mean, who didn’t have a thing for Sons of Anarchy’s Jax Teller? So is that what attracted you to Jensen?”
“Initially I suppose, but I felt there was more to him than his posts suggested. And from our FaceTime chats I was right.”
“In what way were you right?”
“He told me about his childhood. How he was brought up by his grandfather after his mum died when he was only twelve. I felt sorry for him.”
“Ah, there’s nothing as irresistible as a good-looking bad boy with a troubled past.”
Put like that I sound such a cliché. “Yeah, I suppose. Blimey, how stupid was I to fall for that?”
“Don’t beat yourself up, Abbey. You’re not the first and you won’t be the last… There is one thing I don’t get. In the outbuilding. What did Jensen mean, it was just a game?”
“That’s what he called everything he made me do. It was all just a game to him.”
Shari sighs. “Yeah, they like to do that.”
“What do you mean? Do what?”
“You’re not the first kidnapping case I’ve dealt with. Years ago the abductor of another girl would play psychological games with her too. He’d pretend to go out, she’d try to escape only for him to catch and punish her.”
What a bastard… Shari sounds like she’s on my side, believes me, so I’m keen to move our conversation out of the past and into the future. “So what happens now?”
“The hospital says Jensen’s condition is still critical, but if he does survive there’ll be a trial and you’ll obviously have to give evidence.”
Oh please no.
“It’s a serious charge and I won’t lie to you, prosecuting counsel will be vicious in their questioning. It’s their job to defend him. But I don’t want you to worry. With the medical report of your examination and your journal, our case is compelling. We will win, and Jensen will go to prison for a long time.”
But if Jensen doesn’t pull through, that’s it, case closed.
After all, a dead man can’t be tried.
Chapter Twenty Eight
CRISTINA
The hotel staff probably aren’t any happier than we are about the press being camped outside on the pavement for the last three days keeping us trapped in the hotel suite, but there’s nothing they can do about it. They’re on public property.
I don’t think I’d want to, but Abbey insists on watching all the TV news and talk shows whose coverage of her kidnapping is wall-to-wall. And all anti-Jensen. But then people love to pillory a rich playboy gone bad. The questions everyone’s asking are, what made him do what he did, and how come no one foresaw it?
The TV psychologists can deliberate until the cows come home about why he became a kidnapper, but the only person who knows for sure is Jensen. And he’s not talking.
Why no one saw it coming is easier to explain: because men like Jensen Scott are good at hiding who they really are. People thought Ted Bundy was just a good-looking, God-fearing, law student. When he was arrested his fellow LDS worshippers couldn’t believe he was a serial killer. He may have escaped custody twice, but just as Bundy paid for his crimes, if Jensen lives, he won’t evade justice either.
Abbey and Alessandro are both glued to the TV, so I answer the knock at the door. From the look on Shari’s face, whatever her reason for being here, it can’t be good.
Alessandro turns down the TV and Abbey stares wide-eyed, breathing through her mouth as Shari walks in and takes a seat next to her on the sofa.
“Hi, Abbey. The hospital called and I figure
d I should tell you the news in person, rather than you hear it on TV.”
I know it’s wrong of me to hope the news from the hospital means there will be no need for a trial, but I don’t think Abbey could endure having to come back here and go through that.
“Jensen died an hour ago.”
I don’t what her reaction to hearing that kind of news should be, but Abbey’s only response is to let out a shaky exhale.
Alessandro seems just as stunned by the news. Only I can find my voice.
“So what does that mean for the investigation, for Abbey?”
“It means there is no investigation.” Shari looks at Abbey. “That means you can go home.”
The first emotion I feel is relief, quickly followed by an urge to whoop, punch the air, jump up and down. Do something to express my joy. But still Abbey doesn’t react. To be fair though she has just been hit with two massive pieces of information.
1. Jensen is dead.
How does she even begin to process that the man who held her against her will and abused her, is dead?
2. She can go home.
To you, going about your everyday life, going to work, shopping, making dinner, watching TV, the day flies by. As boring and worrying as they were for Alessandro and me, driving up and down streets looking for a red convertible, lunches in diners, nights in motels that all look the same, the days passed quickly. But for Abbey every day probably felt like an eternity. I know other kidnap victims have been held much longer than the fifteen days Abbey was, but the thing is, while she was going through each of those fifteen days, she didn’t know we were going to find her when we did. Every day for her was another one to endure. Every day for her held the possibility of it being her last. For every one of those fifteen days her only wish must have been to go home. And now she can. That takes some getting your head around.
“As there’s no further investigation, the police will release your things they we’re holding as evidence. You can come with me to pick them up, if you like, Abbey. Or I can have someone bring them here.”
“I don’t want them. I just want my phone.”
“But what about your clothes and–”
“They were all new. I bought them especially for… You know.”
“Okay. So just your phone. There’s nothing else you want?”
“My journal… I know the press all want me to give a statement or sell my story, but I won’t. I don’t want everyone knowing what he did to me. So I’d feel happier knowing where it is.”
“I guess that’ll be okay, but the police will need to keep a copy for their records.” Shari looks at us all in turn. “So, I guess this is goodbye.”
What do you say to the woman who’s done so much?
“Thank you isn’t enough, but it’s all I’ve got. So thank you for believing me when no one else would. If it wasn’t for you, we wouldn’t all be here together. You’re bloody amazing.”
“I was just doing my job. You’re the amazing one, Cristina. Everyone should be so lucky to have a friend like you.”
I can’t help it, the Italian in me doesn’t do handshakes, she hugs. And Shari doesn’t resist. She hugs me right back.
“Alessandro,” she says when I release her, “Good to have met you… Abbey. You take care of yourself, you hear?”
“I will. Thank you.”
***
The woman at the check-in desk does a double take at Abbey’s passport. “Excuse me a moment.”
She walks over to the next check-in point and after conferring with her colleagues, comes back smiling. “When there are spare seats, we can bump passengers up to first class. Today’s flight is only half full, and we figure you deserve to go home in style. You and your friends.”
Okay it’s not quite Virgin Upper Class, but still, big squashy leather seats, a choice of meal served on china and complimentary champagne? It’ll do.
“This is a bit of alright, isn’t it?”
For the first time since her release Abbey looks like her old self as she smiles. “Yeah. I should get kidnapped more often…” Then her expression gets serious. “Look, I don’t really want to talk about anything just yet. Not sure if I ever will. But I want to say thank you, to both of you, for finding me.”
“Did you ever doubt we would?”
“No, I suppose not. I mean, I hoped you would, but it was hard to keep the faith some days.”
I want to tell Abbey that while she won’t forget, with time she’ll be able to deal with what happened to her, but the words sound so trite in my head I can’t bring myself to say them out loud.
Chapter Twenty Nine
ABBEY
“So, have you had the dreams since we last met?”
Ignoring Doctor Lucas’s question, I continue to stare at a fly. Watching it hurl itself at the window pane over and over in an effort to escape to the outside world beyond the glass, all the while buzzing angrily at its inability to break free.
I don’t want to answer, because in here I’m supposed to speak the truth, or why bother coming?
I’m expected to talk about it. Give voice to memories that still haunt my fragmented sleep. To recount everything that happened over those fifteen days I’m trying so hard to forget. Three-hundred and sixty hours. Twenty-one thousand six-hundred minutes. Every one of which I was convinced could be my last.
“Abbey.” Doctor Lucas is frustrated by my recalcitrance. Sorry, Fiona, as she insists I call her. Why? You wouldn’t call your GP by his or her first name. She’s a sort of doctor. Psychiatrists have medical degrees, don’t they? Or is she a psychotherapist? I forget. Anyway, what’s the difference?
I turn my gaze from the fly’s futile efforts, letting it sweep past Fiona’s half smile that’s intended to reassure, to the clock on the wall. Its soft staccato sounds the passing of each second. Tick. Tick. Tick.
Fifty-seven minutes left of the allotted hour.
“So what if I have or haven’t?”
“I’m taking that as a yes.”
You can take it any way you like.
“Stop resisting this, Abbey. Talking about it will help.”
“How? I’ve endured it once. Why would I want to relive it?”
“Because talking is part of the healing process... So. How often?”
Hmm. How many times was it? Two? Three? “Twice.”
Fiona writes a note on her pad. “That’s good. You’re making incredible progress, Abbey.”
Incredible? Damn. “Am I? So why do I still feel like that fly head-butting the window?”
“You need to accept it wasn’t your fault.”
“Wasn’t it?”
Fiona leans forward as she always does when she wants to make a point. It’s her ‘tell’. I wonder if I have one…
“You weren’t to know. Men like him…”
What she means is, men like him are convincing. They beguile you. They suck you in. They groom you. I was all those things, but by the time I discovered the man Jensen truly was, it was too late.
“I can’t believe I could be so stupid.”
Fiona sighs. “You weren’t stupid, Abbey.”
“Wasn’t I? I’m not a child. I should have known better.”
“Your age has nothing to do with it. Grooming – and let’s be clear here, that’s what he was doing to you all that time you communicated online. Grooming is a carefully crafted process of manipulation. You weren’t stupid, you were vulnerable.”
“You mean gullible. He said I was – said that was why he picked me. And so did some of the media.”
One social commentator has been especially fierce in her criticism of my lack of judgement, but I expected that. The media is always sympathetic at first. Then there’s one small voice of dissent. One person who puts the blame firmly at the feet of the victim. That she deserved it, was asking for it. And before you know it, others join in.
“I know. One in particular. But why would you listen to someone who used reality TV to further her career of spo
uting right-wing hatred online? I read what she said about you and it’s nothing but victim blaming. A cheap shot. Kicking you when you’re already down.”
It’s the first time Fiona has shown any emotion, her tone is always so neutral, infuriatingly so sometimes.
She closes her eyes on a slow blink and rests her hands in her lap as she lets out an unhurried breath. “Sorry. That was unprofessional.”
“It’s fine. She was a bitch. I don’t know if she has one, but I bet she’d think differently if it were her daughter.”
“Exactly. But my point is, she and all the others are wrong. You have to stop blaming yourself. The blame is his, and his alone.”
I don’t think he’d see it that way. “Maybe, but they have a point. I shouldn’t have gone to Nebraska.”
“Why did you?”
“I don’t know. By then I was hooked, already starting to fall for him, and the thing about his grandfather sounded so plausible.”
“Which emphasises my point about apportioning blame. There was no reason for you to suspect his story was anything other than the truth, and you going with him wasn’t a safe thing to do.”
I’m tempted to suggest I should accept some responsibility for what happened to me. That it happened to me because I put myself in a position of danger. But why prolong this line of thought. Move on.
“That first day, you said he hit you...”
Fiona pauses, as if she’s trying to find the right way to phrase what she wants to say in her head before asking out loud. And she is going to ask, because with her it’s always questions, but that’s her job. Problem is, it’s getting harder and harder to evade them.
“That the violence started as soon as he got you to the house.”