Take Another Look (8 page)

On the paper, an appointment date and time had been written in Frank's heavy script. He always pressed so hard—as if he needed to grind the letters into the paper—and his writing had a severe slant to the left. At the bottom was the doctor's name and, underlined twice, were the words Your Friendly Abortionist.

That snide cruelty had sparked the sterling moment: the transition. The possibility of someone's killing her baby had made something snap inside her.

As she told the story, Luke rolled the dough into a square, folded it into layers, and rolled again. Watching the process, knowing she was in a safe place, loved and protected, Jane let the horrible details spill from her dry throat.

“That was when I knew I had to get away,” she told Luke. “Not just from Frank, but from the life I'd known. My family, my job. The town I grew up in. I think the worst part was leaving my students, but I was such a wreck at that point, I was afraid to connect with anyone. They were better off without me. I didn't have time to prepare. The next morning I drove to school and told them I wasn't feeling well. I waited until a substitute showed up, then I drove straight to my bank. Pulled out my savings in a bundle of cash and a cashier's check. I drove north and left my car parked at a shopping mall in San Jose. My little red Honda . . . I hadn't even paid it off yet. From there I took the train to Seattle, where Marnie and Jason let me stay with them until I was on my feet. That was risky, connecting with Marnie, but since Frank had never liked her, he had ignored the details of her life. He didn't know that she'd left Burnson. Didn't even know her last name, let alone Jason's.” Jane closed the laptop and pressed one cheek to the cool tile of the counter. Luke was dabbing melted butter atop the biscuits on the baking sheet. How she loved watching Luke bake. “All these years, I worried about Frank's coming after me, and he was otherwise occupied. He turned his attention to new victims, other women. New prey.”

Chapter 8

A
fter twenty-four hours of research and soul-searching, Jane called Detective Alvarez to arrange a deposition. She didn't know if any part of her statement would be helpful in building a case, but she had to try. The meeting took place in Alvarez's hotel room, a generic business suite in a high-rise building along the expressway.

“The dates are fuzzy for me,” Jane admitted as the court reporter set up her machine. “It's been fifteen years. But some events are still crystal clear.”

“I'd like to hear anything you remember,” Alvarez assured her.

A pink-faced woman with long, silver-streaked hair pulled back in a ponytail, the court reporter asked Jane to raise her right hand and swear that her testimony was true. Her smile seemed kind but professional, and she seemed to go into a daze as she began to record the detective's first question.

“How did you meet Frank Dixon?”

“He pulled me over one night as I left a bar on the Docks in Burnson,” Jane said. Trying to stay as close to the truth as possible, she explained how he had told her he would not charge her and had given her a ride home. It was not rape; at least, not that time.

She explained how they began seeing each other, usually hooking up in the evenings, before Frank reported to work for a midnight shift. In the beginning, he had taken her out to dinner a few times, to quiet, inexpensive restaurants. Italian, Thai, California cuisine. Frank stayed in shape from surfing, or so he claimed. He didn't drink, and he called himself a “soldier in the war on drugs.” Jane had been impressed, mistaking his sobriety for a grounded mental state. When she introduced him to her parents, Frank had been a model boyfriend. He had talked guns and ammo with Ron and complimented Sandra on her cooking. Granted, it was easy to impress her parents, but Frank knew all the right buttons to push. He always did.

After a few months, he had suggested that she move into his place so that they didn't have to “jump through hoops” to schedule time together. Despite his speeches opposing marriage and procreation, Frank's desire to be with her had won Jane over. She had moved into his house, eyeing the tiny room off the big bedroom as a possible nursery.

Once they were living together, their relationship began a gradual decline. Frank had wanted her to account for every minute she was away, and on the nights they were home together, his appetite for sex carved away at her precious sleep. Trying to talk it out, she had told him that she was not a sex slave. That had prompted him to lock her to the bed in handcuffs and keep her captive for the better part of a day. A joke, he had said. Couldn't she take a joke? That night, when she was about to begin packing, he had coaxed her out for a romantic dinner overlooking the river. Watching the way the waitress came on to him that night, Jane had been reminded of just how attractive and desirable Frank was. Doubting that she would ever do better, she had decided to stay and teach him the proper way to treat a woman.

In some ways the descent of their relationship had been gradual. Frank had seized control over her in small ways, and she had allowed it, to avoid an ugly confrontation.

“Frank never could sleep,” she said, explaining about the night monsters that possessed him. How some vile energy burned in his eyes at night, furious and wild. His patrols during the hours of darkness. The baseball bat. The bizarre demands. And his need to dominate her. That was what had driven him to close his hands around her neck. “It would be so easy for me to kill you,” he had told her, pressing his thumb to her larynx. “A small amount of pressure in the right place. Doesn't take much. A minute or so, and you'd be dead.”

Sometimes when the sun rose, the terror would drain from him, and he would actually smile and proclaim how lucky they were to be together. He would pull her to him and make tender love to her, as if the madness of the previous hours had never happened. Other times, he would simply snap into the daily routine, showering and brushing his teeth. She had begun to live for the nights when he would be away at work.

“When he was at his worst, he wouldn't let me leave his house.” Those were the times when she had vowed to get away. Regardless of how much she wanted to love him, regardless of the fact that he was the best-looking guy she would ever land, regardless of his threats to kill her if she disobeyed him, she needed to stick to her resolve and leave this house and never come back.

And then when she was away from him her determination would wane. Was she being a prima donna, as Frank said? No relationship was perfect.

But the threat of violence . . . the manic control . . .

She had blamed herself for wanting too much time with him. Maybe they needed to include other people in their activities. Unfortunately, that could not include Marnie and Jason. Frank insisted that Jason was gay, and he thought Marnie was a corrupting influence. “After a few hours with her, your brain goes soft with thoughts of marriage and babies.” Although Jane denied it, she knew there was a grain of truth in it. After all, that was what a woman in her twenties wanted: a partner in true love, someone to start a life and a family with. When Marnie had told Jane that Jason had found a job in Seattle, Jane hadn't been completely sorry to see her friend move to the Northwest. It would be one less source of contention between Frank and her.

Trying not to be selfish, Jane had suggested that she and Frank go out with some of the cops Frank worked with and their wives. “I'd like your friends to be my friends, too,” she had told him. He had squashed the idea, telling her that he didn't want her meddling in his career. “You've got to learn how to keep different worlds separated,” he had told her. She had met some of his coworkers once when she dropped in at the precinct, but the encounter had been awkward, with Frank glaring at her as if she had committed a crime. “Don't ever, ever come to my place of work,” he had told her later.

“We'd been living together for more than a year when I found out I was pregnant.” Jane paused as myriad memories bombarded her. The thrill of motherhood. Hope that the pregnancy might win Frank over. A sea of wavering doubts. Fear that the news might make his fury boil over. “He wanted me to have an abortion,” she told Alvarez. “Actually, he
ordered
it. He made all the arrangements himself, assuming I'd go along with it. That's when I left. I knew I had to protect my baby from him. The only solution I could think of was to disappear. So I left town one day, and never went back.”

When Alvarez looked up from his notes, compassion softened his eyes. He understood.

He had a few more questions, many pointing to Frank's hobby of surfing. “Did you ever go with him when he went to the coast?”

“Only once. I didn't know how to surf, and Frank didn't think I could amuse myself at the ocean. But in the beginning, I always wanted to go with him.”

“Going surfing,”
he would say in the morning. She always offered to come along; she wanted to be with him. But he refused.
“You'll just be bored,”
he told her.

“Do you think he really went surfing or was that some kind of ruse to step out? You know how guys do that . . . escape to watch a game, go to a strip joint, whatever.”

“I've wondered about that, too.” She explained that Frank had a board, and a few times when she saw it out in the garage, she noticed sand sticking to the tacky wax. “The one time when I went to the beach with him, he didn't actually surf. He took me up to the cliff overlooking a cove, and we watched the surfers out in the lineup. Frank was highly critical of them. It wasn't a good day. Frank was angry about something. We stopped in at his aunt's house. A small cottage. His Aunt Ginny was in a hospital bed in the living room, and there was some neighborhood woman who came in to take care of her. He teased his aunt about how she kept hanging on, and she stared at him, but I'm not sure there was any intelligence behind her eyes. He brought her salt water taffy, although she couldn't have it because of her diabetes. After we left the cottage, he was in a foul mood. He said Ginny should die already and leave the place to him.” Jane frowned. “That was the one and only time I went to the beach with him.”

When Alvarez asked about the level of violence Frank employed, Jane felt a twinge of embarrassment. Was the detective thinking that she could have just walked away? “It wasn't overt violence, but the threat was there. I had bruises from being manhandled and shoved around, and sometimes my neck was bruised from the choking.”

He nodded, gentle encouragement. “The choking seemed to be a pattern in his method of assault. We saw evidence of it with Jane Doe and Lana Tremaine.”

I could kill you right now. It would be so easy.
She shivered, trying to shake the harsh memory.

“Did he ever hit you with the baseball bat?” the detective asked.

“No. Never. He didn't hit me. That was one of the things that kept me in the relationship. I kept telling myself that he really loved me in his own way, and that he would never hurt me.”

“I understand.” The detective seemed weary.

Jane, too, was exhausted. She hoped they could finish soon.

“But you said earlier that he held you against your will?”

“Yes. He used those handcuffs. He wasn't shy about chaining me down. I don't know if they still have school personnel records, but I maxed out my sick days that year, mostly for times when Frank had me locked to the bed. And he forced himself on me.” A tear slipped out, unbidden and unexpected. “He forced me to have sex. That's sexual assault under the law, isn't it?”

“Yes.” Alvarez pushed a box of tissues over to her. “Yes, it is.” There were a few more questions and then, at last, the deposition was over.

She was grateful to be finished. Energy had drained from her along with the harsh memories. Still, when she arose she felt so suddenly light that she had to steady herself with one hand on the table. Funny thing about painful memories—you felt so damned good once you let them go.

“There's one more thing.” Alvarez's voice stopped her. “Off the record.” He wrote something down on a notepad and tore off the page. “Some information for you on Frank Dixon's family history. I know he told you his parents were dead, but his father and uncle are serving life terms in Ohio for three counts of homicide. This is the link to a documentary that details their crimes. And we're looking into his grandfather, who also had a record of violent behavior back in the forties.”

“So his family really
was
crazy.”

He nodded. “Criminally insane, maybe. Or maybe just criminals.”

“Why are you interested in this?”

“The prosecutor is planning to bring in an expert witness on genetics. If we can show that Dixon is a violent sociopath like his father and the other men in his family, we've got a better shot at keeping him locked up for life.”

Jane pulled her thin, polka-dot sweater closed at her throat. Funny to be shivering when it was actually warm and stuffy in here. She tucked the paper into her purse and left the room, wondering if she would ever lose the chill between her shoulder blades, the feeling of being watched, the icy frost of his eyes.

It's the ripple, not the sea That is happening.

 

—Stephen Sondheim

Chapter 9

T
he call came at 4:22 a.m. Saturday morning, awakening Jane with a jolt of alarm. She sat up in bed and snatched her cell phone from the nightstand.

“This is Officer Pickett of the Mirror Lake Police Department.”

“What? What's going on?” Heart-pounding panic gave way to disorientation as the voice explained that everyone was okay.

“Your daughter Harper is being cited for breaking curfew.”

“Breaking curfew?” Somewhere in the back of her mind was the dusty, archaic rule that made outlaws of young people who went outside after hours. Jane realized that Luke's hand was still securely on her hip, and somehow that made her feel a little risqué as she spoke to the cop.

The officer explained that five girls, wanting some “fresh air,” had taken it upon themselves to venture down to Palisades Elementary. Apparently, Harper had been the ringleader. “We have them down at the precinct now, on Tulip Avenue.”

“In jail?” She scraped her hair back with one hand. “You've incarcerated teenage girls for a curfew violation?”

“They're waiting in the sergeant's office. You need to come get your daughter.”

“Okay, officer.” A sigh rasped from her throat as Jane extracted herself from the warm bed and rubbed the back of her neck. “I'm on my way.”

“Is Harper okay?” Luke asked from the shadows of the comforter.

“She violated curfew. I need to spring her from jail.” Although Jane made light of it, she felt a little sick. The early hour, the abrupt wakening, the panic of worrying that her daughter was in jeopardy, the lingering horror over the information Detective Alvarez had given her. She switched on the dresser lamp, sending soft amber light spilling through the bedroom.

“Do you want me along for moral support?” He rubbed the dark hairs on his chin. “You've had a rough week. And as you've seen from recent events, I can be quite the badass.”

She gave a small laugh as she grabbed a scrunchie from her dresser and pulled her hair back. “No, thanks. Your presence would only expand the scandal. ‘Teacher's daughter arrested. School teachers purged from love nest.'”

“Right.” He pulled his jeans on. “But I can't stay in bed. Unless you'd like me to greet Harper with animal-shaped pancakes.”

“Sorry. My brain is sleep-deprived.”

He slipped on his shirt as he crossed the room. “I get that. A lot has been dumped on you, but it looks like the really bad shit is in the past. Frank is in jail. That's a gift.”

“It is.” She yawned. “But now Harper is in jail, too.”

He chuckled. “Not for long.”

There was something about the way he folded her into his arms, something about his resolute tenderness that made the noises fade, at least for the moment. A short whisper of time.

She was the last parent to arrive at the precinct, where Pete Ferguson was the self-appointed facilitator of an impromptu parent meeting.

“I'm just saying we should nip this in the bud,” Pete said, making a cutting motion with scissor fingers. “And if that means suspending a player from the team as a disciplinary measure, so be it.”

“Who's getting suspended?” Jane asked, blinking against the bright precinct lights. Why the hell were they conferencing at this hour of the morning? Jane wanted to grab Harper and get the hell home.

“Hi, Jane. Come on in and join us,” Pete invited, as if he were hosting a talk show. “What you missed is the fact that your daughter was the instigator in this mess. Because of her, our girls are going to have curfew violations on their records.”

“A temporary record,” Keiko said firmly. “Officer Haynes explained that to me. If they commit no further offenses, this record will disappear when the girls turn eighteen.”

“Regardless . . .” Pete stretched his arms wide enough to stop a stampeding elephant. “This is a problem, and we all know the source is one young lady in there.”

“Can I just point out that Olivia is two years older than the other girls?” Trish held up two fingers, as if to drive home an elementary point. “You'd expect her to set a better example for our daughters.”

“That's ridiculous,” Linda objected. “Age isn't everything.”

“And you were hosting, Pete . . . Linda,” KK's mother piped up. The only black team parent, Cora Dalton usually was treated with deference by other parents, who were afraid of appearing racist in their primarily white community. “Not that I blame you. Kids are going to do what they wanna do. But I'm surprised you two didn't hear these five little lovelies sneaking out the door. If there's one thing our girls are not, it's quiet.”

“Olivia's room is in a separate wing, and our house is forty-five hundred square feet,” Linda explained. “We didn't hear a thing.”

Show-off,
Jane thought.

“But I assure you, this is the last time we'll be hosting any of your girls overnight.” Linda's mouth puckered in a sour expression. “We don't harbor juvenile delinquents.”

“Are you calling my daughter a JD?” Hands on her hips, Cora stood her ground.

“These are good kids,” Jane intervened. “Good kids who made a poor choice by going out for a stroll after dark.” She looked toward the officer working behind the reception counter. “What's the story on getting out of here? Do we need to sign them out?”

“Not until we figure out an appropriate team punishment.” Pete's voice boomed; he would not be ignored.

“Hold on a second, Mr. Pete Ferguson.” Cora was on fire now. “You are not the coach of my daughter's team. If there's going to be a team punishment, then Carrie Enderly is the one who is going to make that decision. For now, you figure out your own daughter's punishment, and I will deal with my child. No one else is going to mess with how I raise my daughter, Mr. Pete Ferguson.”

Cora's speech took them all by surprise. As a city council member and major contributor to the school district, Pete Ferguson usually got what he wanted in Mirror Lake. Cops and teachers, car dealers and restaurateurs were used to handing this man a proverbial sundae with all the fixings. If Jane hadn't been a schoolteacher herself, and thus compelled to tolerate this difficult man, she would have applauded Cora's defiance.

“I'm with Cora. I'm taking Sydney home.” Trish peeled off from the group and went over to the precinct desk.

Norio Suzuki spoke up, the voice of calm. “Cooler heads will prevail after we all get some sleep.”

“Amen to that.” Jane left the group and followed Trish and the cop to the room where the girls were being held. Olivia was twirling in a desk chair while Emma, Sydney, KK, and Harper were huddled on a low-slung couch, dozing together. All the girls wore the same type of pajamas: colorful cotton boxers topped by a baggy T-shirt. With Sydney stretched across the other girls' laps, the sight was almost comical.

“Wake up, sleeping beauties,” Trish called. “Time to go home.”

Based on Harper's moan and sullen expression, Jane could tell that she had her parenting work cut out for her.

“Bye!” The girls mustered enough enthusiasm for a round of hugs. “I love you!” they chimed brightly. Was it Jane's imagination, or was the contact with Olivia stiff and forced?

Wishing for a complacent daughter like Emma Suzuki, Jane told Harper to hang out while she took care of the paperwork. One form promised a follow-up call from a social worker; the other threatened a court summons if Harper was caught breaking curfew again. Jane took her time reviewing the legalese. Let the others clear out before them; she'd had her fill of Pete Ferguson for now.

When the coast was clear, Jane went out to the main desk and handed the form to a thin female officer with a dead-fish stare.

“We could have charged them with trespassing,” the woman said proudly. “When we came up on them, they were hiding in someone's bushes. Private property. But we decided to go easy on them.”

“I see.” Jane shoved the pen into a cup on the desk. “Well, thanks for that.”

When she turned, Harper stood behind her, annoyance seething in her pretty blue eyes. “Let's go, honey,” Jane said blithely. With one hand on her daughter's back, she guided her out the double doors of the precinct.

“I hate cops,” Harper carped before the door had even swung shut behind them.

“Don't say that. They're doing their job. They keep us safe.”

“That lady cop was obnoxious. She said there was graffiti at Palisades, and she blamed us for doing it, and we didn't go anywhere near the school. Oh my God, they are so ridiculous. You should have seen them trying to track us down through the neighborhood with those spotlights. It was like a chase scene on TV. Like the hoods of L.A. or something. You'd think we robbed a bank or something.”

Jane let her daughter vent as they headed up the street. The car was parked behind the precinct, but Jane had already decided that they would head over to St. Olaf's, a French bakery on the town's main square that would be opening any minute now. If she didn't address this now, Harper would scowl at her every time she brought it up over the next few days.

“You did break the law,” Jane pointed out, “even if it is sort of a lame one.”

“It's so lame. We have constitutional rights. They can't lock us up in our own homes just because we're kids.”

Oh, yes, they can,
Jane thought as she motioned Harper to turn onto the cobblestone street leading to the square. But now was not the time for a constitutional debate; it was time for Harper to accept responsibility for her actions and learn that laws were not to be broken on a whim. “Why were you walking around so late at night?”

“We had to get out, Mom. There was no air! Olivia's house is so nice, but the rec room where they wanted us to sleep has a musty smell, and I couldn't take it anymore. I just wanted some fresh air, and once we all got out, Olivia said we should go for a walk. She does it all the time. Did you know there's a spot on the top of a hill near Palisades that they call the roundabout? It's kind of high up, and there are no trees around, so you can see the stars really well.”

“Yup.” Jane knew the spot. Years ago it had been known as a place for kids to park and fool around until the cops stepped up their patrols. “Let's stay on track here. Mr. Ferguson said you were the instigator.”

“That is so not true. I swear, it's not my fault, Mom. I wanted to step out, just to the yard, but Olivia said we should go for a walk. She's the one who got us into all this trouble.”

“And you think she's afraid to tell her father the truth?”

“Duh. Wouldn't you be?”

“He is a little scary.”

“He's such a liar, just like his daughter.”

“I thought you were happy to be on the team with Olivia.”

“That was when she was going to play shortstop. Now all she can talk about is playing catcher.” Harper hugged herself, rubbing her arms for warmth. Despite the pale sky, the cool of night still held the town in its grasp. “Why is she trying to steal my position? That's so unfair.”

“I don't know, Hoppy.”

“I wish she would move to another town. If she wants to play catcher so bad, she should go to West Green or Hazel Grove.”

“That's not going to happen. You know the Fergusons are firmly rooted in Mirror Lake.” Everyone gushed over their palace on the lake. “They have a lot of power in this town.”

“What am I going to do?” Harper whined.

“You're going to figure out how to play on the same team with her, and stop worrying so much. We talked to Coach Carrie, and as far as she's concerned, you are the team's catcher. Olivia's just going to have to accept that.” Jane hustled her daughter past the majestic clock at the center of the cobblestone square and thought of the supreme joke of time. Years could fly by without a ripple, and then, when you least expected it, time exploded around you like popping corn, making a few seconds stretch into an eternity.

The clock chimed a muted ping that announced five thirty. You had to hate yourself to be up at five thirty on your day off. Or maybe you just resented the person who tore you from a soft blanket of sleep.

“I'm so tired. I just want to go to bed.” Harper shivered. “Where is the car?”

“Back that way. We're going to grab some coffee and pastries from St. Olaf's first.”

“What? I don't want anything.”

“But you love their chocolate croissants.”

“I just want to go to bed. I want to go home. You can make your own coffee, Mom. I'm so tired.”