Finding Claire Fletcher (34 page)

Connor had kept the television off, even while I slept, and now I saw why. Many stations had news of my return, of my rescue of Alison Ward. There were video clips and stills of my mother’s house, Connor’s house, the house and trailer where I’d spent the last five years of my life. My yearbook photo, a girl I barely recognized, flashed again and again across the screen, sometimes taking up all of it and other times floating just to the side of a reporter’s head. A reporter stood outside of the hospital, speaking into a microphone, and repeating my name. Behind her, other reporters did the same for their own cameras.

I left the television on and climbed out of the bed. My legs were stronger, and a body brace staunched the sharp pain of my ribs as I moved to the window. Carefully, I made a small eyehole in the mini-blinds and surveyed the street below me. Sure enough, news vans and reporters were spread along the sidewalk, milling, standing, and some jogging to their respective vans. There were microphones and notepads, earpieces, and video cameras.

When I felt Connor’s hand at the small of my back, I jumped.

“It’s okay,” he said. “Just me.”

I gestured toward the window, swallowing hard over the lump in my throat. “They’re all here for me?”

“Yeah. But don’t worry about them. The press is the least of our concerns right now.”

“I didn’t want this,” I said, turning and looking up into his eyes. Peach fuzz grew around the gash on the side of his head. “I wasn’t going to come back.”

Connor’s voice was gentle. “Why?”

“I tried to tell you that night on the phone. I don’t know if I can do this. The questions, the press, the police. All of it. You don’t know what he did to me.”

“
Claire,” he said.

Tears stung my eyes. I pulled away from him. “See?” I said. “I haven’t been Claire Fletcher for ten years. That wasn’t even what he called me. I’m not sure I know how to be Claire Fletcher anymore.”

“No one expects you to be the same girl who was abducted ten years ago, Claire.”

I shook my head, tears leaking from the corners of my eyes. I swayed and stumbled back to the bed, collapsing on the edge of it. I wrapped my arms around the front of my body. “They’ll all want to know. They’ll want to know the things he did to me.”

Connor stepped in front of me. His voice was soft. “It wasn’t your fault,” he said.

My lower lip trembled. “I have to give a statement,” I said.

“You were the victim of a crime. Yes, you should give a statement to the police. Especially since this guy is still on the loose. He was going to do the same thing to Alison Ward that he did to you. People like him don’t stop.”

“I know,” I mumbled.

We were silent. I looked at Connor’s hands resting at his sides. Hands that had held a gun and shot a man. Hands that had touched my body gently, tenderly, making me feel things I had never felt at the touch of a man and didn’t think I could.

“There are things I need to tell you,” I said.

“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to tell me,” he said.

I lifted my chin and met his eyes. “I need to tell you,” I said.

“You can tell me anything you want Claire, but it’s your choice what and when you tell me.” He sat beside me on the bed. His hand floated tentatively over mine, testing, waiting for a protest. When I said nothing, he took my right hand in both of his, lacing his fingers through mine. “You can do this,” he said.

“You need to know,” I began. I took a big gulp of air. “There are bodies.”

“Rudy Teplitz and Jim Randall,” he said.

I started. “What?”

“They’ve been missing for some time now. After the way he came after me, I think we can safely assume that he killed them. We can’t change that, but we can give their families some closure and when we catch this guy, we can make sure he’s held accountable for the things he’s done.”

“There’s someone else,” I said. “A girl. Sarah.”

“Sarah?”

“That’s what I called her. Actually, I don’t know what her name was. He strangled her. She’s with Rudy at the second house—the house in the woods where he—” my throat seized up. I had never spoken to another soul about the things I had seen, about Sarah. She existed in my mind apart from the corporeal world, as if she had always been a figment of my imagination. It was easier to deal with that way.

“Do you know where their bodies are?” Connor said, and I was suddenly grateful that he was a detective who dealt with this sort of thing regularly. He didn’t recoil in horror or drop my hand as though it burned his skin. His professional mind was at work.

“Yeah,” I murmured. “I mean I could help you find it I think. The night I met Rudy I drove from there to the bar. I can’t remember what it was called, but there was a motel, too, within walking distance of the bar. I might recognize it if I saw it again.”

“You’re going to have to tell Boggs when you give your statement,” Connor said. “This is very important.”

A sob rose in my throat, making my mouth feel stiff and heavy. “But I could go to prison,” I said, voice rising. “It was because of what I did—things that I did—that he killed them. He killed them because of me.”

Connor sighed and squeezed my hand. “Look at me,” he said.

Slowly I met his eyes.

“Those people were murdered because he chose to murder them. Not because of you or anyone else. Killers love to place responsibility for the lives they take on everyone and everything around them but it’s all bullshit. You didn’t make him kill Rudy or Sarah or Jim Randall. He made that choice on his own, and he’s the one who needs to bear that burden. Not you.”

“But I never came forward, never told anyone,” I said.

“At the time, were you in a position to call the authorities or intervene?”

“While he was killing them? No, I...well I didn’t know about Rudy or Jim until later. With Sarah, he chained me—made me watch. I tried to get out but I...” The sob came on full force, making my body curl and my ribs ache. With each heave of my chest, pain stabbed me in the side, making me gasp and hiccup for air.

“Claire,” Connor said calmly. “The DA is not going to waste their time trying to prosecute you for something you had no control over. I’m sure once they hear the whole story, they’ll be far more interested in nailing this guy’s ass to the wall.”

I nodded, though his words failed to soothe the raging anxiety coursing through my body.

“Do you think he’ll come back for me? Try to hurt my family?” I asked.

“What makes you think that?”

“He always said he would. He threatened me, my family.” I told Connor about the newspaper clippings—the one about Tom’s car accident and the fire in my mother’s kitchen.

His eyes widened. “Wow,” he muttered. He released my hand and rubbed his eyes, taking a moment to digest these facts. “Well, I think those threats were mostly to keep you there. At this point, there are so many police agencies looking for him that it would just be foolish for him to do anything retaliatory. Plus, sexual predators like him prefer to lay low if they can—that way they can keep on fulfilling their sick fantasies. The less attention that is drawn to them the better. At this point, I think he’ll cut his losses and run. If he comes after you or your family, he’s walking right into police custody. I think he’s too smart for that.”

My voice cracked when I spoke. “Are you saying he never intended to follow through on his threats?”

Connor’s face softened. “Look at your face, Claire. The threats he made were real. You were right to be afraid. But now it’s over. You’re free. He’s not coming back for you or your family.”

I nodded. I saw the logic in what Connor said, but the fear I’d held onto for so many years was not so easy to cast off.

“Look,” he continued. “Right now we need to focus on you and what you’re going to do next. First things first. We have to figure out where you’re going to stay when you leave here. You’ll need to give your statement. Your mom and Brianna are out shopping now. We figured you would need clothes.”

I managed a half smile and tugged at the collar of my hospital gown. “Really? I thought I’d start a new fashion trend,” I joked.

There was that lopsided smile I loved so much. The one I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about after I left Connor’s house the first night. The one that made me feel tingly and nervous but in a way that was not wholly uncomfortable. “Well, the hospital gown—that’s a good look for you,” he said.

We smiled at one another. Connor glanced over my shoulder. “You shouldn’t be watching that,” he said, referring to the television.

“I know,” I said. “I have a better view from the window.”

Connor chuckled. “Claire.”

“Yeah.”

“You’ll get through this. You will. You have a lot of people supporting you.”

Tears sprang to my eyes again. “I don’t know,” I said.

Connor stood and lifted my legs back into the bed. He covered me with a sheet and kissed my forehead as his hand found the remote control on the side rail and switched the TV off.

“One thing at a time,” he murmured. “First, we get you out of this hospital.”

We left the hospital the next morning to go directly to the police station. Because the press was so hungry for the smallest sound bite or video clip, Connor and I left via ambulance, wearing EMT uniforms complete with hats and sunglasses. My hair was pulled back in a ponytail, which jutted out from the hole in the back of my hat. Between the hat and the thick mask of foundation my mother had painted over my face, my bruised and swollen face was not noticeable as long as I kept my distance. The uniforms masked both our injuries well.

Less than five minutes later, we were in a parking garage beneath the police building. We took an elevator to the fourth floor, which consisted of a large room littered with unkempt desks. Men and women in smart dress clothes moved among them.

No one looked at us or stopped to stare open-mouthed. Connor guided me to the back of the large room and sat me behind his desk. “I’ll be back,” he said.

Although my surgically-repaired left hand remained in a splint, my right hand was free, and I could not stop it from trembling. To distract myself, I began opening desk drawers, peering at the contents and closing them. I found nothing of interest until I opened the center drawer. From the drawer, my fifteen-year-old face smiled innocently at me. I picked up the missing persons flier, glancing briefly at the facts I already knew. Beneath the flier was a file marked with my name. It was almost an inch thick.

I pulled it out and set it on the desk. I didn’t know what to expect. I opened it, sifting slowly through the pages until I came to Connor’s handwritten notes at the very back of the file. My face paled as I read his notes about interviewing Noel Geary. Heat drained from my skin as if the floor were leeching it out from the soles of my shoes. I felt cold in a way I had for uncounted weeks in that first room, alone, naked, and unable to move.

Connor’s voice startled me. I jumped and the chair slid back as if it had been hit with an electrical charge.

“You okay?” he said.

I stared at him, holding the pages of Noel Geary’s interview in my right hand.

Connor limped around the desk and saw the contents of my file scattered across it. He began gathering the pages together. I held the other papers forward. “Noel Geary,” I said.

Connor sighed. “I have a lot to tell you too,” he said. “But right now they’re ready for you.”

“I wasn’t the first. I mean I wasn’t the only one.”

Connor sat on the edge of the desk. “Well, you knew that,” he said. “You were the one who found Alison Ward.”

I shook my head. “No. No, I thought I was the only person he’d done this to, the only person he’d hurt until Alison.”

Connor folded his arms across his chest. His eyes were dark with concern. “Claire, people like him don’t sprout up out of the ground overnight. They don’t develop these tendencies like an epiphany one day. Usually they nurture their sexual compulsions for years, even as adolescents. You were the first he imprisoned, that we know of, but we’re betting the farm that when we figure out who this guy really is, he’ll have a long list of priors with everything from peeping tom and indecent exposure to fondling.”

“I didn’t even think of that,” I mumbled.

The bubble that had been my existence for so long was punctured, the air hissing out in a slow leak. I realized how ridiculous my words must have sounded.
I thought I was the first one
. I heard myself telling Tiffany he was a pedophile, out prowling the streets for young girls when he wasn’t home. I’d said it to taunt her, to hurt her, never taking into account the gravity of my accusations. By that time, my entire world had narrowed to a solitary pinpoint, a singular focus—me. My survival, which most of the time had hardly seemed worth the fight.

Tiffany stayed by choice, but my mind and body recoiled from the life he’d forced on me. It did not allow room for the possibility that there were more like me—chosen specifically by him. Forced to endure his touch, his mouth, his eyes, and his anger.

“You weren’t the first, Claire. If we don’t get this guy soon, you won’t be his last,” Connor said, plucking the pages from my outstretched hand. “Are you ready?”