Текст книги "Where They Found Her"

Автор книги: Kimberly McCreight

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

JENNA

MAY 30, 1994

Tex cornered me today on my way to Spanish. Totally sketched me out. Kind of pissed me off, too. It’s been nice having him be like this secret big brother to me—especially after that liar Todd Nolan started telling everybody that we had sex in the boys’ locker room. (He felt me up. And that was ALL.)

But I think Tex has gotten the wrong idea. First of all, he HAS a girlfriend, so I don’t know why he’s bothering me. Especially because I HAVE a boyfriend. Maybe not officially yet. But that’s what the Captain and I are: TOGETHER. And I’ve told Tex a million times that he ISN’T my type—or maybe I didn’t tell him that flat out. I didn’t want to be a bitch or whatever. Besides, what I said should have been enough.

But then today Tex got me all up against the wall and was like “Be careful.” And I was like “About what?” And he was like “You know.” And I was like “Hey, no, I don’t.” After like ten minutes of that shit, he was like “The Captain, be careful of the Captain.”

And so I’ll admit it, I got totally mad and I said something to Tex I shouldn’t have. Something so mean I’m not even going to write it here.

I felt kind of bad after because I don’t think Tex is trying to be a jerk or whatever. But he’s wrong about the Captain. And he’s confused about us. But that’s not even his fault. It’s probably because his tight-ass girlfriend won’t put out.

Barbara

Barbara was sitting on the living room couch. Waiting. With each passing minute, she was getting more aggravated that Steve wasn’t home yet. She wasn’t afraid to admit it: She couldn’t handle the situation with Cole on her own. But when she checked the clock on the cable box, she saw it was only 9:34 p.m. The community meeting surely had gone past nine, with Steve held up by questions afterward. He would come home as soon as he could after that. Assuming that his phone wasn’t dead or he wasn’t so distracted that he hadn’t noticed how many times she’d called. In any case, how many more messages could she leave?

A second later, her phone rang. Barbara leaped for it, telling herself not to snap at Steve. No one wanted to do the right thing and then have his head bitten off for being late. But it was a blocked number. Dr. Kellerman, Barbara presumed—psychiatrists knew better than to call you from a number you could call them back on. So nice of him to finally get back to her after Barbara’s fourth page.

“Hello?”

“This is Dr. Kellerman.” He sounded annoyed.

“Thank you so much for calling me back.” Finally, she wanted to add, but didn’t.

“Yes, Mrs. Carlson, what seems to be the problem?”

The hell of their afternoon poured out of Barbara in an unstoppable rush. By the time she’d gotten home from Ridgedale Elementary—and a stupid “quick stop” at the grocery store, which had stretched out because she’d been so hopelessly distracted by her miserable exchange with Rhea—Cole had completely fallen apart. Hannah had been in the kitchen, frantically trying to convince him that the red light on the smoke detector meant only that it was on, not that there was a fire.

But Cole wasn’t buying it. “I don’t think so,” he said, shaking his head back and forth and back and forth. He didn’t even seem to notice that Barbara had come home.

“Mom, he’s not okay,” Hannah whispered, looking terrified.

“Why don’t you go upstairs, Hannah,” Barbara said. Because Hannah either needed to hold it together or get out of Barbara’s way. “Do your homework, listen to some music. Do something to distract yourself. Because Cole is fine, honey. He is just fine.”

“Mommy, please put it off,” Cole whispered once Hannah had headed reluctantly for the stairs. He was pointing at the red light on the smoke detector.

Oh, and did Barbara rise to the occasion. She was a virtual model of motherly calm, smoothly taking the battery out of the smoke detector and handing Cole its lifeless shell. He was better after that, for all of about ten minutes. Until Barbara turned on the stove to make dinner. One look at that blue flame flickering under the pot and Cole had jumped right out of his skin again. At least Hannah had stayed up in her room—she didn’t even come down for dinner. It was true, Barbara didn’t go up to get her, either; Hannah knew what time dinner was served. Instead, she decided to be grateful for small mercies.

After dinner was finished, Barbara spent at least a half hour trying to convince Cole that a Wild Thing couldn’t possibly fit behind his bookcase. And while he was brushing his teeth, Cole asked her at least a dozen times whether a “cat burglar,” which he seemed to think was an actual cat, was going to crawl in the window as he slept.

No, was Barbara’s answer each time. No, Cole. Of course not. All the while she prayed she’d keep it together. And she did, but barely. It wasn’t easy to sit by and watch your child lose his mind.

“I can make space for him tomorrow morning,” Dr. Kellerman said when Barbara had finished recounting their terrifying evening. He sounded so irritatingly matter-of-fact. “We may need to consider medication to stabilize him.”

“Medication?” Barbara snapped. “Wait, so things aren’t bad enough to see him right away, but they are bad enough to drug him?”

“That’s one possibility, Mrs. Carlson, and only on a temporary basis. But it is important we keep an open mind.” We, as though Cole were his child. As though they were really in this together. “Bring Cole by at ten a.m., Mrs. Carlson, and we can discuss all our options. In the meantime, try to stay calm.”

“Stay calm? And what if we can’t wait that long? He’s not okay now, Doctor.”

“At this hour, our only option would be the hospital, and I don’t think that’s where Cole belongs, under the circumstances. Where is he now, Mrs. Carlson?”

“He’s asleep at this exact moment, but—”

“Then at this exact moment, the issue is really your anxiety, isn’t it? It’s completely understandable. This is an extremely stressful situation. Nonetheless, you’ll need to find a way to manage your anxiety for Cole’s sake. If you’d like, I can give you the name of someone to see on your own.”

“On my own?” Barbara asked. “The only problem I have right now is Cole. I don’t mean that—Cole is not a problem. His problems are my problem, that’s what I meant.”

“Yes,” Dr. Kellerman said, but not like he agreed. And then he was quiet for a long time in a way that Barbara didn’t want him to be.

“Fine,” she said, because she needed to get off the phone before she said something she would regret. “But I’m going to call you back if anything changes. Otherwise, we’ll see you tomorrow at ten a.m.”

“Absolutely call again if Cole’s situation deteriorates. In the meantime, try to get some rest, Mrs. Carlson. It may take some time and hard work to get through this, but Cole will be fine. Children are extraordinarily resilient.”

Barbara tried to go to bed after she got off the phone; 9:42 p.m. and still no sign of Steve, and it was making her angrier and angrier with each passing minute. Did he really need to answer every last stupid question? Or was he not even at the meeting anymore? Was he somewhere else entirely? His only excuse would be that he hadn’t gotten her messages.

When Barbara got upstairs, she saw Hannah’s light glowing in a thin strip beneath her door. Barbara thought about going in, telling Hannah to get to bed. But as soon as her hand was on the doorknob, it felt like a terrible idea. What if Hannah got worked up about Cole again? It would end badly between them, very badly. Barbara was sure of it.

And so she walked on, past Hannah’s room, heading to her own bedroom, hoping not to open her eyes again until morning, when Steve would be there and it wouldn’t be long before they could see Dr. Kellerman.

When she got into her room, she found her night table drawer a little ajar. It was where she’d tucked Cole’s drawing. She hadn’t let Dr. Kellerman keep it—especially when, at the time, she hadn’t planned for them to ever go back. But she couldn’t bring herself to throw it out, as Steve had suggested. Instead, she’d slid it in the drawer where she kept all her important papers. Had Cole been in her room? Had Hannah been snooping around? Barbara hoped not, but her daughter could be so maddeningly insistent. After the afternoon they’d had, maybe Hannah had been intent on finding out everything there was to know about Cole. Then again, maybe Barbara had left the drawer open herself. She couldn’t recall, but she had looked at the picture more than once since hiding it there.

It took Barbara forever to get herself to sleep, and when she had just started to doze off, she was startled awake by a noise. When she snapped her eyes open, there was Cole, looming in the darkness right next to her face.

“There are bad things in my brain,” he breathed. “Get them out, Mommy. Please.”

He had a bad dream, that’s all, Barbara told herself. And bad dreams were okay. They were normal kid stuff.

“It’s okay, honey.” Barbara pulled him into bed and curled her body around his. “Come here to me.”

“But I’m still scared, Mommy,” Cole whispered, sounding worried that the confession might get him in trouble. “I keep having the same bad dream.”

“Oh, Cole, you’re not even asleep yet,” she said. “You can’t be having a dream.”

“But I just did, Mommy,” he whispered. “And it was so, so bad.”

What to say to that? To a little boy’s bad dream that goes on long after he’s opened his eyes? There was nothing to say. And so she rubbed Cole’s back, and eventually, he fell asleep. Around the same time, Barbara became convinced she might never sleep again.

She managed to slip out of the bed without waking Cole. In the hallway, she could see that Hannah’s light was still on. She was still not asleep. And Barbara still could not bring herself to go in and comfort her daughter. She simply had nothing left to give. And maybe that made Barbara a terrible mother and a bad person, but it was the truth. She could only do what she could do. Dr. Kellerman had been right: She needed to focus on keeping herself—and Cole—calm.

Downstairs, Barbara checked the clock on the wall again: 10:23 p.m. Steve was not at that meeting anymore, that was for sure. “Dammit, Steve,” she said quietly as she looked out the living room windows toward the dark driveway. Where was he?

Soon, Barbara would have to call the station. She didn’t like to do that. The chief of police’s wife having to track him down? It didn’t reflect well on either one of them. But what choice did she have? Before she could dial the number, there was a buzz from the opposite side of the room. Hannah’s iPhone vibrating on the side table. Hannah wasn’t one of those teenagers who was attached to her phone, but it was odd that she’d left it downstairs. When Barbara picked it up, the text came through a second time: I’m sorry. I should have said that before. For everything.

The text was from Sandy, the girl Hannah had tutored. What was Sandy sorry for? Missing her tutoring? Barbara felt a queasy tug in her gut. For everything. No, missing the tutoring wasn’t it.

Barbara typed in Hannah’s password—her knowing it was a condition of Hannah having a phone—then opened the text messages between her and Sandy, scrolling up to those that had preceded the new one. Barbara recognized many of the back-and-forths between the girls; from the beginning, she’d monitored them regularly. She had her concerns, of course, about Hannah socializing with the kind of teenagers served by Outreach Tutoring, and she wasn’t ashamed to admit it. But the girls’ exchanges had been so routinely uninteresting, about scheduling their tutoring or where to meet or the assignments. It had been obvious they weren’t real friends. Not like Hannah’s other friends, who—let’s be honest—came with their own Corona-swilling problems.

Are you okay? Hannah had written to Sandy about a week earlier.

Yeah. Was Sandy’s whole response.

Are you sure? Hannah had pressed. You should go to a doctor. That was really bad.

A doctor?

To check you out. Make sure you’re okay.

I AM okay.

Barbara’s heart had started to pound. What was really bad? More exchanges followed, all essentially the same. Hannah asking if Sandy was okay. Sandy assuring her that she was. Hannah asking again. Over and over and over. Hannah was obviously worried about Sandy. But why? Barbara checked the dates of these very different texts. They had started nearly two weeks earlier. Right about the time the baby had probably been . . .

Barbara bent over as the room began to spin. She was going to be sick. Her head was ringing.

That Sandy girl had been in their house. Could she have had her baby there? Oh my God: Cole. Had Hannah been lying all this time to protect Sandy? Had she chosen some worthless white-trash stranger over her own brother?

All Barbara felt was rage as she charged for the steps, Hannah’s phone gripped in her hand. Then there was a sound, the front door finally opening. Steve. Barbara didn’t care anymore why he was late or where he had been. She was just so very glad he was there now. She sprinted toward him, diving into his arms and pressing her face against his chest. She didn’t realize she was crying until she tried to speak.

“What is it?” Steve asked. But she couldn’t get any words out. He pushed her back. Shook her once, hard. As if trying to wake her. “What’s wrong, Barbara? Talk to me. Is it Cole?”

“The baby,” she said, waving the phone at him. “It belongs to that girl Hannah has been tutoring. I think Cole saw something. I think whatever happened to the baby, Steve, I think it happened here.”

“Barbara, what are you talking about?” His voice was raised—angry, alarmed, disbelieving.

Barbara didn’t want to believe it, either. Didn’t want to believe their daughter could be so unfeeling and cruel. Hannah had been acting upset about Cole, and this whole time she knew exactly what was wrong with him; worse yet, she was the one responsible.

Steve took the phone, his finger moving up and down the screen. His face hard and still. Finally, he took a deep breath and exhaled, rubbing a hand over his mouth. “Where is Hannah now?”

“Upstairs,” Barbara said.

The look on his face was sharper now, the tired tinge gone from his eyes. He was in charge, a police officer on the case. Barbara felt such an enormous sense of relief. Steve was there and he was going to handle this. Her anger at him felt like such a silly, distant memory. Because they were in this together. They were in everything together. They always had been and they always would be.

“Wait here.” Steve took a breath. “I’ll be right back.”

Barbara was glad he hadn’t insisted she go along. Things with Hannah were always so much better without her.

Steve turned back at the steps. “This—Cole, Hannah, all of it—it’s my priority to get us through and make sure the kids are okay,” he said, staring at Barbara in such an unsettling way. “But once we get this all figured out, you and I will need to talk.”

He didn’t mean a casual chat.

“Talk? About what?”

“I think you know, Barbara.”

Barbara stayed there, rigid on the couch, holding her breath. Trying not to think about what Steve had meant. All of that—if that’s what he was even talking about—hardly mattered anyway, certainly not now. She listened hard for Steve’s raised voice, for the sound of Hannah crying, although she couldn’t imagine Steve ever yelling at their daughter, even now.

She braced herself for Hannah to come flying down the stairs, to run for the front door. To race off into the night. Barbara thought for a second about running out into the darkness herself. Disappearing. Because she was overwhelmed now by the most terrible dread. As though something, an actual thing—heavy and dark and hot—had crawled up her back and attached itself to her neck.

A minute later, there were heavy, fast footsteps on the stairs. And then there was Steve, his face tense and wide-awake as he moved swiftly across the room for his keys. “When was the last time you saw her?”

“What? Who?”

“Hannah, Barbara!” he shouted. “When was the last time you actually saw her?”

“I—I don’t know. I don’t remember. I was too busy trying to keep Cole together.” She scrambled to recall. It had been before dinner, at least. But she wasn’t going to tell Steve it had been that long. He would never understand how overwhelmed she’d been by Cole. “Maybe she went out for a walk. She does that sometimes, you know.”

“Without her phone?” He pointed to the counter where Hannah’s keys sat. “Or her keys? Her jacket’s over there, too.”

Steve seemed so angry, and at Barbara. Absolutely furious as he grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair.

“Steve, where are you going?” she called as he strode for the door.

“I am going to do what you should have done hours ago: find our daughter.”

Frat Chat

Here are the chatters in your area. Be kind, follow the rules, and enjoy the ride! And if you don’t know what the rules are: READ THEM FIRST! You must be 18 to Chat with the Frat.

How are we going to get Aidan kicked out of our school before he brings a gun or something?

3 replies

He told me he had a gun in his bag last week.

He did. I saw it.

You guys are so bullshit.

Anybody who could do that to a baby could definitely shoot a bunch of high school kids.

1 reply

Kill Aidan Ronan before he kills us!

Someone should tell the school.

Anybody seen the girlfriend? Maybe she’s dead too?

2 replies

I saw her once, it would be hard to tell the difference.

Dead or not, she’s still hot.

Somebody should call the police and tell them.

3 replies

My mom told me the police already talked to his mom.

My mom can’t stand his mom. She’s a be-yatch.

My mom says HIS mom hits on MY dad. And my dad is totes disgusting.

Everybody send anonymous messages to the police today! Get Aidan before he gets us!

Molly

When I got home from the community meeting, Justin was asleep, a copy of Tender Is the Night open on his chest. I’d raced up the stairs, intent on telling him about Thomas Price. But once I was standing there, watching him sleep so peacefully, it occurred to me that he might not be thrilled to hear how I’d felt threatened enough that I’d fled Price in a panic. Or that I had been especially petrified, because of how utterly charmed I’d been by Price. He’d reeled me right in, just as he must have reeled in all those young women. And I wasn’t young. I should have known better. God, I’d actually been flattered that he was flirting with me. I felt nauseated, thinking of it again, my hands still trembling as I lifted the book carefully from Justin and set it on the nightstand, then switched off his light.

On my way downstairs, my phone vibrated in my pocket: Erik Schinazy.

“Hi, Erik,” I said, relieved it was him.

“Oh, hi, Molly.” He sounded surprised, as though I’d called him. “I’m on my way back to Ridgedale, driving now. Just wanted to check in about the community meeting. Anything new?”

He also sounded nervous. Or maybe I was just projecting. “Most of it was about the community DNA sweep they’re planning. As you can imagine, people in town are not happy about it. I can’t say I blame them.”

“No other updates? No mention of that woman they were holding in the hospital?”

“No, there really wasn’t anything new. There would have been nothing to talk about if they hadn’t had the DNA testing. The woman in the hospital is still missing, as far as I know. I think they’ve probably ruled her out as the mother of the baby, though, or they soon will. Her baby would have been several weeks old.” I pulled in some air, preparing to deliver the rest. It was going to sound insane. “But I do think there’s a chance that she was sexually assaulted by Ridgedale University’s dean of students. That maybe her baby is his baby—it’s just not the one they found.”

“What?” He sounded shocked, as I’d expected.

“I know, it sounds– It was surprising to me. But I think it’s true.”

“That’s a serious allegation, Molly. Where’s it coming from?”

He sounded as skeptical as he had when he’d put me on the story about the baby. Actually, he sounded more skeptical now. And he didn’t even know that I was basing much of my theory on a box of files anonymously dumped in my living room, by Deckler, I was now assuming. My low opinion of Deckler hadn’t magically changed. So why was I willing to believe what he wanted me to now? Like Erik had said: Everybody has an agenda. It was definitely too much to unpack for Erik on the phone—stories at the Wall Street Journal probably never started as inauspiciously as breaking and entering. Before I laid it all out for him, I needed my ducks in a much tighter row.

“It is a serious allegation, you’re right,” I said. “And I won’t know for sure until I make some more calls. Rose might be the best place to start. Come to think of it, she was a psychology student before she withdrew. Maybe Nancy knows her.”

“I doubt it, it’s a huge department,” Erik said sharply. As though he wasn’t going to bother his wife with my absurd theories.

“Okay, well, there’s my friend Stella. She may have heard from Rose by now.”

“Fine, follow up with her. And I’m not trying to be negative, Molly. It sounds like you have the start of something. I just don’t want to make a libelous accusation against the dean of students without clear evidence. Once we have that—a comment from Rose or someone else, as you said—then we’ll go after him full force. I promise, I’ll be leading the charge.” He sounded regretful now. I heard him take a breath. “And thank you, Molly. For all your hard work on the baby and whatever this turns out to be. You’ve done an excellent job with all of it. By any measure.”

Once I was downstairs, I spread the files out on the floor, looking for connections between Price and each one of the girls. The first three were easy—he’d taught the American studies course as a last-minute replacement for Christine Carroll, the professor listed on their fall schedules. It took nearly an hour of cross-referencing various university sources, but soon I had linked each of the other young women to Price in one fashion or another. Jennifer Haben (2012) had been an intern for the dean of students’ office, and Willa Daniela (2013) had worked in Student Services, in the office adjacent to the dean of students. Rose Gowan (2014)—whose name Thomas Price had convincingly pretended not to know—had sat with him on a seven-member student advisory committee that had met weekly for the past two years.

I was studying the remaining files when my phone buzzed, making me jump. I took a deep breath, not that it helped much. A text from a blocked number.

Find Jenna Mendelson.

That was the whole message. Who the hell was Jenna Mendelson?

I turned back to the folders spread across the floor, wondering if I’d somehow missed a Jenna Mendelson. There was Jennifer Haben, but no Jenna and no Mendelson.

Who is Jenna Mendelson? I texted right back, even though I felt conflicted about engaging. The last thing I needed was another mystery to solve. But already those three little ellipses had appeared, an answer on its way.

She’s missing.

Then contact the police.

The police are WHY she’s missing.

Who is this?

I waited for the ellipses. But this time, nothing.

I was still staring at the phone when I saw something move out of the corner of my eye, on the far side of the room. When I jumped and whipped around, there was Ella, standing at the bottom of the steps, gripping her blanket and trying not to cry.

“Ella, what are you doing?” I shouted, way too loud and angry. I closed my eyes and pressed a hand to my chest, trying to slow my heart. Then I heard a sniffle, followed by a squeak. When I opened my eyes, Ella was full-on bawling.

“Oh, Ella, I’m sorry.” I rushed over and scooped her up in my arms. “I didn’t mean to yell. You just surprised me. What’s wrong?”

She pushed back my hair to whisper in my ear. “The bugs. They’re everywhere.”

One of her bad dreams, at least I was hoping. “All over where?”

“My bed.”

A bad dream, definitely. “Come on, Peanut. You’re safe. Mommy’s here,” I said, lifting her against me as I stood. “Let’s go upstairs and get this sorted out.”

A half hour of lying in Ella’s bed, rubbing her back, and she was finally back to sleep. I made my way downstairs, wondering if it was possible that I’d imagined the blocked texts. But the conversation was still on my phone, my last question—Who is this?—still unanswered. And now I wanted to know who Jenna Mendelson was and what it meant that the police were “involved” in what had happened to her.

Why should I try to find her if I don’t know who she is? I tried again, hoping they’d answer me now. Or who you are?

An instant response this time. Because we know what happened to the baby. Find her and we’ll tell you.

How do I know you’re telling the truth?

Baby was found with her head crushed. No one knows that but the police. And me.

I didn’t know whether that was true. Steve hadn’t told me those details, but it would fit with his reference to the “condition of the body.” It would also fit with how disturbed he’d seemed.

OK. What do you want me to do?

There was no answer.

According to Google, there were—unhelpfully—many Jenna Mendelsons, and none appeared to be in Ridgedale. I spent close to an hour clicking through all those other Jennas. It wasn’t until I was so completely bleary-eyed that I accidentally typed a new query into my email search bar instead of Google’s that I stumbled on something: an email from Ella’s teacher, Rhea, one of several we’d exchanged back when I’d done the profile on her tutoring program.

Subject: Follow-up Interview Questions

Hi Molly,

Just wanted to get back to you with the names of some students from the program you might want to contact. The student I really think you could do an entire piece on is Sandy Mendelson. She’s so smart and hardworking. I have such high hopes for her. She’s really the poster child for this whole program.

All the best!

Rhea

Rhea had given me Sandy’s phone number, too. I remembered leaving several messages for her at the time, but she’d never called back. I’d run the piece with comments from two other students Rhea was tutoring.

I dialed the number and held my breath, gambling on the fact that it was Sandy texting me about Jenna—her sister or maybe her mother. I hoped I wasn’t going to be the one delivering upsetting news.

“Hello?” came a wide-awake voice.

“Is this Sandy Mendelson?”

There was a long pause. “Yes,” she said finally.

“This is Molly Sanderson. I think you were trying to reach me?”

In the morning, I found Justin in the bathroom, already back from his run. He was standing at the sink, wrapped in a towel, neatening the edges of his beard with a razor.

“I think Thomas Price may be—or has been—sexually assaulting girls on campus,” I said. I leaned forward and wiped the steam off the mirror with the back of my hand, so I could see his face in the reflection.

“Really?” He stood motionless, razor hovering in midair, head tilted to the side as he eyed me in the mirror—concerned, wary. “Where’s that coming from? This has something to do with your story about the baby?”

He was probably worried about getting fired from his hard-won beloved job because I was rushing around making possibly groundless accusations. It would be understandable.

“I don’t think it has to do with the baby, but I don’t know. Right now it’s more of a hunch anyway.” Why was I downplaying it for Justin? I might not have been in a position to write a front-page story, but I wasn’t pulling it out of thin air. Pretending otherwise wasn’t going to help either of us. “No, it’s more than a hunch. I’m pretty sure it’s true. I just don’t have enough evidence to do anything about it.”

Justin shook his head in disgust, then leaned closer to the mirror and went back to shaving. “I don’t want to say I told you so. But you know I never liked that guy.”

“I’ll warn you before I do anything. I know that my making that kind of allegation against Price could be disastrous for you. To be honest, I’m trying to figure out the right thing to do.”

“Well, don’t worry about me.” He looked almost offended. “If what you’re saying is true, Ridgedale University isn’t going to want to defend him. And even if they do, I’ll support you, Molly, whatever you decide.”