Finding Claire Fletcher (11 page)

Connor could not stop his body from inching to the edge of the couch. “Mrs. Strakowski,” he said, amazed at the reserve in his voice. “Did you keep that picture by any chance?”

Dinah looked at Connor like he had just grown another head. “Well, of course I did,” she said. “I couldn’t ever get that day out of my mind and always feeling so guilty about not being able to identify that car. I don’t even know why I kept it after all this time, but I sure did. I tore it out and tucked it away in my—”

“Can I see it?” Connor asked, unable to let her finish.

“Why sure,” Dinah said.

It took her ten minutes to find the picture in one of her kitchen drawers, during which Connor’s stomach felt as if he’d just ingested a large quantity of molten steel. He was so relieved when she handed it to him, he almost hugged her. He thanked her profusely and gave her his card in case she thought of anything else. Strakowski walked him outside to his car, which was parked in the same spot the mystery station wagon had been on the day Claire Fletcher was abducted.

“Have I been of any help, Detective Parks?” Dinah asked.

Connor smiled broadly. “You certainly have,” he said. “I really appreciate your time.”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” she said, her face flushing and nearly matching her hair. “Glad I could be of help.”

Connor turned to go but turned back abruptly. Dim shapes moved in the back of his mind. He chased them, trying to discover their import but could not catch them. “Mrs. Strakowski,” he called.

Dinah was nearly to her front stoop. She turned. “Yes?”

“Which direction was the car facing? Do you remember?”

She nodded. “Why, yes. It was facing the same way as your car.”

“When he drove away, which direction did he take?”

“Well he pulled right out and went that way,” she said, pointing in the direction Connor’s car faced.

“Thank you,” he said.

Connor stood beside his car for several minutes. Something was working its way up from his gut, but he couldn’t yet put a finger on it. Finally, he pulled out his cellphone and dialed Mitch.

Farrell picked up on the second ring.

“Farrell? I’m at the Strakowski residence. Could you come down here?”

At some point, I realized that my SWAT fantasy would not become a reality. It was up to me to escape, and up to that point, I had not made the conditions optimal for escape. Slowly, I decreased my verbal and physical struggles with him, although I could never bring myself to be silent. This earned me privileges, which came first in the release of my limbs, starting with my feet, until again I was bound by only my right hand. Then I got a pillow, socks, and different kinds of food.

Each time he brought something I so desperately wanted, I had to remind myself not to feel grateful. He kept me so starved for even the smallest amenity that I could not see past the next privilege or what my deathly thin and battered body thought of as treats. I forced myself to focus on one thing—escape. Even when he slid the white cotton socks over my feet and my whole body shuddered with pleasure, I repeated the word like a mantra in my head so that I would not lose sight of my ultimate goal—escape.

Escapeeescapeescapeescapeescape.

My pseudo-cooperation allowed my body time to get stronger. The first time I escaped was not well thought out. The prospect of freedom was too big, and I rushed at it, head down, body sprung forward like a bull charging a red flag.

He had my single hand bound with rope with several layers of duct tape over the knots, to discourage me from simply untying them with my free hand. It took three days, but I gnawed through the middle of the rope, slicing and gnashing through the thin threads with teeth and fingernails. When he was there, I covered it with my pillow or blanket.

The second I was free, I leapt up and the room spun wildly around me. It took me a few minutes to gain my balance and work my legs. The door was locked and so was the window. Outside, all I could see was grass and trees. I tried to unlock and open the window, but it had been painted shut.

Wrapping the blanket around my foot, I broke the glass, pushed the shards out of my way and climbed through. When my feet hit the soft grass, I ran without looking back. In fact, my mistake was that I did not look around at all. I simply ran toward the trees, hyperventilating, wheezing with the effort and the overwhelming sense of freedom, of escape.

He tackled me from the side before I reached the tree line.

That night he beat me far worse than he ever had before.

It was weeks before I was strong enough to try again. He rotated me from room to room. The house was sparsely furnished with second-hand furniture. After my failed escape attempt, he used a chain instead of rope and duct tape. The chain had two feet of links, and I actually preferred it because it granted me more mobility, although it took me awhile to figure out how to get my hand out. He usually chained me to a heavy piece of furniture, a pipe, or the radiator.

Being out of my room enabled me to study his activity—when he left the house, when he came back, how long he was gone. It seemed strange that he left me there. I could not imagine him going to some job and acting normal, making idle small talk with coworkers or sales clerks. Could no one see that he was a monster? Was there nothing about him at all that alerted the outside world to his depravity?

When he came home, he talked at me in that effeminate, singsong voice he used with me. The thread of his one-sided conversation never deviated no matter what I tried to interject. It did not matter what I said, how I objected, or how many times I pointed out the reality of the situation, in his mind I was “Lynn” and I was his. This was “our” home, and we would be together forever.

When he looked at me, he did not see a shrunken, dangerously thin girl with hatred in her eyes, literally chained in place. He saw his fantasy. In his eyes, I was a willing party, and my face was always aglow with my eternal, flaming love for him.

The second time I escaped, he had left the house. I was chained to a metal bar in the bathroom. Bracing my feet against the wall, I grasped the chain with my left hand. I pulled and pulled until my body was slick with sweat. I kicked the bar several times in an effort to loosen it. Eventually, it tore out of the wall, leaving two nearly perfect gashes in its wake.

I scurried, dragging the chain and the bar with me, right out the front door. There was a porch, and a gravel area where he must have parked. But nothing beyond that. No road, no houses—nothing but trees. I ran to the right, straight at them. I stayed in the trees but parallel with what looked like a driveway though it was only a narrow clearing in the trees, wide enough for a car to pass through.

He caught me as he drove past, returning sooner than I anticipated. My heart beat wildly as the car slammed to a halt and he got out, not even closing the door behind him. I turned and began running away from him, barely cognizant of anything but my own labored breathing. I glanced over my shoulder and saw that he was closing in easily. I was too weak, and he overtook me with little effort.

When he reached me, I pulled the towel bar up and swung at his head. He caught it in his hands, pulled me into him, and pressed the bar against my throat. With my neck sandwiched between the bar and his body, sharp pressure on my carotid artery, I passed out in seconds.

Again came the beating and along with it, days of starvation until hallucinations set in. Endlessly I babbled to myself, looking for something, magic words.
Magic words, magic words
, sung a voice in stereo just outside my left ear.

He gave me only water and kept me bound to radiators this time with handcuffs. My body felt weightless and non-existent. After several days, I found the words I was searching for and began an endless litany that carried into my sleep.

“I hate you,” I said, over and over again. “I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.”

I said it until I did not know how to stop. I said it as he raped me, fed me, and bathed me. I said it while he was gone and tried to infuse more fervor into it when he returned.

Weeks passed without me trying to escape, and he began to return some of my privileges. I stopped speaking. The day he freed my left hand, leaving my right cuffed to a radiator in the living room, I made my third attempt at escape.

The moment he left the house, locking the door behind him, I wet my right wrist and hand with saliva and dislocated my thumb, pulling my hand free. Skin scraped off the top of my hand in long strips. The pain only spurred me on. I cradled my hand at my stomach and unlocked the door with my other hand, which quaked and trembled.

He was waiting outside, arms crossed in front of him. He stood in the center of the clearing out front. His eyes narrowed as I emerged.

“You fucking bitch,” he said, his voice low but hard.

I tried to evade him but could not. He dragged me, kicking and screaming, back into the house. He pushed my face into the toilet until my chest burned and my mouth opened against my will to breathe in deep lungfuls of water.

I woke on the bathroom floor on my side, spluttering, coughing and choking. Water poured out of my mouth, and my body snapped shut on itself, spasming to bring up the remaining water.

He sat across from me, back against the wall, limbs folded neatly like a Buddha prepared to meditate. His eyes were dark but calm. When my body settled into quivers and intermittent coughs, he spoke.

His voice was quiet, even. “I don’t know how to make you understand, Lynn. You are not leaving me. We will work through this for as long as it takes. I wish you wouldn’t make me hurt you. I love you so much, and then you go and try to leave. I’m trying to make a life for us. I don’t know why you insist on fighting me every step of the way. After everything I’ve done to make sure we could be together, you still don’t appreciate it.”

A voice in my head said,
I appreciate that you’re fucking crazy and I wish you were dead.

He shook his head sadly. “I made sacrifices for us. I wish you could see that. I really thought that once we had a home together, you would turn around, but you disappoint me, Lynn. You really disappoint me.”

I stared at him with aching, itchy eyes. He crawled toward me, and my body recoiled involuntarily. He did not notice. He stroked my hair and touched my cheek. “Because I love you,” he said, “I’m going to give you another chance. I know you want this to work just as much as I do. Don’t make me do anything we’ll both regret.”

I had been beaten, raped, and starved so many times that the drowning, though new and terrifying, had almost no effect. I did not care what he did to me. Even when he reset my thumb, popping it back into place and wrapping it in an Ace bandage, I let out a single, short cry of pain and nothing more. Again, I began the long, tedious process of healing my body, gaining strength and earning privileges. It was a long time before I considered escape again or how I would do it.

Twenty minutes after Connor’s call, Mitch stood beside him, listening as Connor recounted his interview with Dinah Strakowski. Connor showed him the picture of the blue station wagon. Mitch studied it and looked back at Connor. They didn’t discuss it, but they both knew that a tiny detail like that could be the key to solving a cold case.

“I’ll get on the car,” Mitch said.

Connor nodded and stepped off the curb. He stood in front of his car, facing the direction the abductor had gone when he drove away with Claire Fletcher’s body in his backseat. Farrell’s mouth turned up on one side, half smile, half scowl.

“What are you working on, kid?” Farrell asked.

Connor flashed him a smile and ran a hand through his hair. It felt good to work with someone who could follow his thoughts, even when Connor himself could not. He gestured down the street, trying to articulate the fusion of gut instinct and shapeless suspicion in his mind.

Mitch stepped off the curb and stood in front of him. “Start at the top,” he instructed.

Connor nodded. “All right. The guy is sitting here in his car, right? Before she even comes down the street, he’s sitting here. Waiting.”

“Premeditation,” Farrell said. “You think he stalked her first?”

Connor pursed his lips together, took another swipe at his hair. “No, no I don’t. I think this was just prime hunting ground. The school is two blocks away. These guys, they look for a type, right?”

“Yeah, assuming he’s a sexual predator. Most stranger abductors are,” Mitch agreed. “They generally don’t deviate from their type.”

“So this guy is looking for a teenage girl, dark hair, probably between the ages of thirteen and fifteen. He had to have picked the spot beforehand though,” Connor said.

Mitch crossed his arms and leaned against the hood of Connor’s car. “Yeah, probably. I mean some of these guys are really impulsive, reckless, but those are the ones who have their fun, kill the vic, and dump the body. We know this guy didn’t do that. To pull off the snatch and grab without getting caught, there’s got to be some planning.”

“Right,” Connor said. “So he chooses this spot, which means he had to be doing some surveillance, but Strakowski said she doesn’t recall seeing a blue station wagon parked on the street before, at least not with a driver fitting this guy’s description.”