Where They Found Her (23 page)

There was rustling as people took the sheets, then a long pause as they read, probably having a hard time—like I was—digesting it. Especially galling was the fact that high school and college students were clearly intended to be included in the sweep of all Ridgedale residents age twelve and over. An asterisk provided that minors would be tested only in the presence of and with consent from their parents or guardians. A moment later, a bunch of hands shot up, and so did the amount of noise. People’s faces had darkened, along with the mood.

“You there,” Steve said, pointing at a squat man on the right side of the bleachers in an expensive-looking pumpkin-colored sweater. He was in his late forties, with thinning hair. By the time he stood, the sound had grown to a roar.

“Excuse me! Please,” shouted Thomas Price, an unexpected savior, but probably the only possible one. “We’ll all have to be quiet if anyone is going to hear!” Watching Price, I could see why the university had appointed him its unofficial spokesman: calm, authoritative, appealing. As a bonus, they could always claim he wasn’t an official university spokesman if things went badly. The volume dutifully dropped. “Thank you, everyone. Now, go ahead with your question, sir.”

“There are about a thousand ways a DNA sweep is one of the worst ideas I’ve ever heard.” The squat man looked wide-eyed around the crowd. “No one is going to consent, you know that, right? At least they shouldn’t. Trust me, I’m a lawyer. Don’t do it. At least talk to your own lawyer first. You’d be forfeiting your constitutional rights. Just because they’re saying they won’t keep the samples, there’s nothing to stop them.” He nodded back at Steve. “No offense. I’m not saying you personally. I mean in general.”

Steve glared at the man until he sat back down. Then he stayed quiet, eyes moving slowly over the crowd, letting the silence grow uncomfortable.

“No offense taken,” Steve said finally, working his jaw to the side. “And to be clear, you are all absolutely free to consult your attorneys or your accountants or your spiritual advisers before deciding whether or not to help. You can look inside yourselves and decide that having a Q-tip wiped across the inside of your cheek or your kid’s cheek is wrong on principle. It’s a free country, and that’s the meaning of voluntary: You get to choose.” The crowd was utterly still now. “But I would say this: When we found the baby floating in a creek like a piece of trash, she was stuck there, her neck hung up on a stick. I pulled her out myself, weighed almost nothing.” He was quiet again, this time like he was trying to gather his composure. “
Principles
are a luxury that baby’s never going to have.”

It was good theater. Impassioned, persuasive. And genuine. Steve obviously believed what he was saying. Of course, that didn’t make it true. The dragnet did sound unconstitutional, or at least potentially so.

Nonetheless, Steve’s speech had—as intended—succeeded in silencing public opposition. For an hour and a half afterward, people steered clear of queries about the DNA sweep. Instead, someone wanted to know more about Simon Barton. As he had with me, Steve dismissed the connection out of hand. Others wanted to know about some men on the local sex offender registry. Someone else agitated for precautionary fingerprinting in the schools, and another for an investigative neighborhood watch, focusing—it seemed—largely on Ridgedale Commons, the apartment complex that was the town’s de facto low-income housing. Thankfully, several others dismissed that idea as appallingly discriminatory. Steve brought the hammer down on it anyway. Dangerous and irresponsible vigilantism, he called it. And not long after that, he called a stop to all of it.

“Looks like we’ll have to wrap this up for now.” Steve’s voice was hoarse from all the talking as he pointed to a huge clock high on the wall. “University was kind enough to let us use their facilities, but I did promise we’d be cleared out by nine p.m., and we’ve already gone twenty minutes past that.”

There was some displeased grumbling as people stood and slowly began to disperse. Some didn’t get very far, settling into large pods dotted across the gym floor, presumably to exchange theories and complaints. Others shuffled toward the doors. I turned to make my way over to Stella, whom I’d spotted in the distance, embedded with a group of high school moms and dads. I was hoping she’d give me a ride to my car. I wasn’t going to cross back over that dark campus alone, not with Deckler lurking out there.

“Stella!” I called as she and her group started to drift toward the door. She kept on chatting with a mother as she walked on; she hadn’t heard me. A second later, she had disappeared, lost to the crowd.

“Molly Sanderson,” someone said then. “Nice to see a friendly face.”

I was relieved to see Thomas Price walking toward me with a hand clasped around the back of his neck. He looked absolutely exhausted.

“Oh, hi,” I said, wondering how I could ask Price to walk me to my car without seeming needy or ridiculous. “How are you?”

“I’ve been better.” He motioned to the dispersing throng. “I wish the university president were here to see this—all these people. Maybe then he’d understand that this isn’t going anywhere anytime soon.” Price shook his head. “Anyway, other than that, I am very well, thank you. Yourself?”

“Okay. But can I ask you a question?”

“For you, anything,” Price said, then glanced away as though he’d inadvertently shown his hand. But when he met my eyes a second later, his expression was so guileless I wondered if I’d imagined it. “However, do consider yourself forewarned: my actual answers seem in maddeningly short supply today.”

“I ran into one of the Campus Safety officers on my way here—Officer Deckler?” How to accuse Deckler of sexual assault
without
accusing him, that was the question. Because not even Rose had put it in such distinct terms, and the files weren’t proof of anything in and of themselves; they were merely a compelling clue. A strong opening salvo. My strongest evidence was my overwhelming instinctual suspicion, exacerbated by Deckler’s incessant creepiness—hardly incontrovertible, either. “Deckler seemed overly interested in my conversation with you about Rose Gowan and the status of my investigation in general. Do you know why that might be?”

“Wait, Deckler was on campus tonight?” Thomas Price looked uncharacteristically alarmed. “Where did you see him?”

“Outside the Athletic Center, walking on the path toward the main campus.” My stomach tightened. I had been so sure Price would tell me what a great guy Deckler was. “He wasn’t in uniform. I don’t think he was on duty.”

“No, he wouldn’t have been.” Thomas Price was looking toward the doors as though making some kind of calculation. “Deckler was suspended earlier today. He was also barred from campus, pending an investigation. Which means he shouldn’t have been here at all.”

Deckler hadn’t been off-duty. He was off the job.

“What is he being investigated for?”

“Let’s just say overzealousness.” Price shook his head and exhaled. “Among other things.”

“What does that mean, ‘overzealousness’?” I could hear myself sounding panicky. I couldn’t help it. It sounded like a euphemism for something far more ominous.

“The details are confidential, I’m afraid. Our internal investigation is ongoing. Running afoul of employment law by making a premature allegation to the press about an employee with a contract will not win me any points with the president.”

“I’m not asking as a reporter,” I said. “I think Deckler might be— Right now I’m concerned about my safety, my family’s. I have some information and I—well, I don’t even know what it means yet. But I need to know how worried I should be about Deckler.”

Thomas Price’s face softened. He nodded but crossed his arms. “Between us, there have been complaints from female students. Deckler made a number of them uncomfortable, on more than one occasion. He’s unnecessarily persistent.”

Just like he had been with me. Just like he probably was with Rose Gowan.

“I know Deckler’s been here for a while. But do you know if he worked here back in 2006? Or if he left for a time between 2008 and 2012?” It was one piece of the puzzle that I could confirm. Deckler’s absence during that period of time would explain the substantial gap in the files.

“I don’t think so. I don’t know his résumé by heart,” Price said, “but I’d be likely to remember those years. They match my tenure here exactly.”

Boom, boom
, went my heart in my ears. “Oh yeah?” I made myself smile. “You left Ridgedale University and came back?”

“Yes, I came as an American studies professor in 2006—to take over for Christine Carroll for a year while she underwent chemotherapy. It ended up being two years; the treatment was more complicated than anticipated. But when she returned for the fall of 2008, I departed for Wesleyan. I didn’t come back to Ridgedale University until a few years later, and then it was as a dean.” He looked confused.

But I wasn’t. Not anymore. Not only did Price’s tenure match the files; he’d taught the first three girls in the only class that connected them.

“I’m sorry, I believe I may have lost the thread on our discussion here. What does this have to do with Deckler?”

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 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.