Finding Claire Fletcher (40 page)

Mitch got right to the point. “Reynard Johnson grew up in rich town USA. Huge house—a compound actually, complete with tennis courts, in-ground pool, horses, stables, the whole nine yards. Couldn’t get much on family life. But I found a housekeeper who worked for the family while the kids were growing up. It cost me, but I got her to talk on the condition that she wouldn’t have to testify in a court of law.”

Connor shrugged. “I don’t think that will be a problem. We’re talking about when he was a juvenile, right?”

Mitch nodded. “Yeah. The things she told me anyway. Turns out our boy was a peeping Tom as young as fourteen. The housekeeper said she caught him spying on his younger sisters several times. Apparently he also exposed himself to them. There was some trouble at school with him groping girls. One lady I talked to went to school with him. She said he would just kind of sneak up behind them and start touching them whenever he found one of them alone or away from the pack.”

My stomach felt hollow. “My God,” I muttered.

“Yeah. Sick shit. When he was fifteen, the parents sent him to an all-boys boarding school. The mother was against it, but the father insisted. I think old Mr. Johnson figured that the kid would have to stop acting on his urges if there were no young girls around.”

“But he managed to find one,” Connor supplied.

“More than one. The faculty lived on campus and a few of them had twelve- and thirteen-year-old girls. Johnson went back to his peeping routine and when the opportunity to expose himself came along, he took it. Get this—the families of these three girls got together and decided to press charges. The Johnsons tried to buy them off to keep them quiet.”

I wrapped my arms around my middle and rocked back and forth on the edge of my chair. It was almost too horrifying to hear. I was glad I had only picked at my dinner because what little I had eaten threatened to come back up. “No,” I said.

Mitch held up a hand. “Well the families weren’t having any of that. They pressed charges and Reynard got sent to juvy for his senior year of high school.”

“Juvy records are sealed,” Connor pointed out. “How did you find that out?”

Mitch smiled. “People love to talk, my friend. They just love to talk. So he gets out of juvy, turns eighteen, and somehow gets into college. Family probably arranged that as well. He only lasted one semester. He stopped going to classes and started a relationship with a thirteen-year-old local girl. Claimed it was consensual. Maybe it was, it’s hard to tell, but her dad found them going at it in a motel room and beat the piss out of him. The girl’s father pressed charges, but this time the Johnsons were able to make it go away.

“They brought Johnson home, where they could keep an eye on him. Then he gets caught twice trying to lure thirteen-year-old girls into his car. The Johnsons paid and kept it quiet but that was it for them. They kicked him out and told him never to come back—not to their home and not to the state of Texas. The mother convinced the father to set up the fund through the law office so he would be taken care of.”

“I am going to be sick,” I said.

“We don’t have to talk about this, Claire,” Mitch said.

I shook my head, shored myself up and met Mitch’s gaze. “No,” I said. “I have to. I have to hear it.”

Connor reached over and squeezed my shoulder. “So the reason he has no priors in Texas is because the parents bribed people to keep quiet,” he said to Mitch.

“Yeah. That was over twenty-five years ago though. I found a lot of people who were willing to tell me the details just so long as they never had to go to court.”

Connor’s mouth twisted in revulsion. “So the parents knew that their son was a pervert well before he turned eighteen, and their solution to that problem was to give him unlimited funding and turn him loose on the rest of society?”

Mitch’s bushy eyebrows drew together. “Yeah, just so long as he didn’t tarnish the family name.”

Connor stood and paced the deck. He looked every bit as disgusted as I felt. “Unbelievable,” he muttered.

Reynard had ruined so many lives and in spite of Connor’s assurances that he would be caught and punished, he was free and he had taken another girl. Another life ruined. When would it end?

I took a breath and swallowed the bile that rose at the back of my throat. A plan was already half-formed in my mind. I couldn’t sit idly by anymore trying to live a normal life as a raging insomniac with no appetite, sustaining myself on the scant details of Emily’s case. I had to
do
something.

I hadn’t been on an airplane since I was thirteen. My father had taken us to Washington D.C. on a short vacation. As the plane lifted up, airborne on rumbles and thundering speed, my body was pinned to the seat cushions. The insistent pull of gravity caused a fleeting sense of fear which was quickly overcome by guilt. I knew my family would be beside themselves with worry, but as they had pointed out to me repeatedly since I had come home, I was an adult now. I was free to come and go as I pleased. I had my driver’s license for just that purpose. My family didn’t want me to feel restricted in any way after having been a prisoner for the past decade.

Of course none of that made it okay to steal Brianna’s driver’s license and credit card to fly to Houston without telling anyone. But that’s just what I did.

Once we were at cruising altitude, the steady hum of the engines and the off-balance sensation of flying lulled me into a warm, deep sleep. I fought it to no avail. I had planned to use the time on the flight to mentally review my plan and figure out what I would do next if I didn’t get what I wanted. But I hadn’t slept for weeks.

When a flight attendant shook me awake, the plane was empty. She handed me my carry-on bag, and I made my way into the bustling airport. My eyelids were heavy. I felt groggy. I paused outside the gate, looking for signs for baggage claim. Once I made my way there, I found a rental car company.

The woman at the counter studied Brianna’s license for a long time. “That was taken when my hair was short,” I explained awkwardly. I prayed that Brianna and I looked enough alike that I could pass for her. Mostly, I needed her credit card. I had been reborn into the world as a twenty-five-year-old woman. I had no resources of my own other than my trust fund, which Tom oversaw for the time being, and I knew he would never have sanctioned this trip. The woman at the rental car desk looked me over, a skeptical arch to her brow. A few tense moments ensued and then wordlessly, she pushed the paperwork across the counter for me to sign.

With the key to a rented Nissan Sentra in hand, I stepped out into the thick Houston heat. I blinked against the sunlight. My eyes burned from exhaustion and the sudden brightness of daylight. I used the directions given to me by the rental car agent and found the hotel within minutes. Continental breakfast was being served when I arrived. I grabbed two croissants and the biggest cup of coffee I could find and headed to my room.

The room was airy but dark and sterile in the way all hotel rooms seem to be. It was a way-station with stark white walls and a double bed. I dropped my bag on the floor and climbed onto the bed. I had purchased a map of the city at the airport. Now I spread it before me on the bed. I called Brianna and left her a voicemail explaining what I had done. I had considered not contacting my family at all until my mission was complete but that didn’t seem fair to them after all they had been through. After I hung up, I noticed I had two missed calls. One from my mother and one from Connor. My heartbeat quickened, and I felt a distinct pain in my emotional core.

I knew my family and Connor would be worried about me, but it couldn’t be helped. I had wasted ten years of my life standing by and doing nothing. Now a young girl’s life hung in the balance. I felt responsible for her. I hadn’t been able to save myself or Sarah—Miranda. Even Alison had spent a month in the dark confines of a closet before I rescued her. But now I was free, and I could do something to save Emily.

My days of standing idly by were over.

As he sped to Mitch’s house in a department-issue vehicle, Connor tried Claire’s cellphone. Just as Jenny had predicted, he got no answer. It switched over to voicemail. He didn’t leave a message. His heart pounded hard in his chest and sweat soldered his shirt and jacket to his frame.

Jen had called him twenty minutes earlier. She said Claire had gotten up early and taken her car. She hadn’t left a note and no one had seen or heard from her for several hours. Jen and Rick met him at the door. Jen wrung her hands nervously. Behind her, Rick stood stock still, an unnatural pallor to his face. Connor imagined that this is what they must have looked like over ten years ago when they realized their daughter had been abducted.

“We’re sorry,” Jen said. “We didn’t know who to call. She’s not answering her phone. We didn’t know what to do.”

“It’s okay,” Connor assured them.

“We just got her back,” Jen said, her voice cracking. Rick moved toward her and pulled her into his arms. His hands were shaking.

Connor urged them both toward the couch where they sat down. “It’s okay,” he repeated. “I’m sure this is just a misunderstanding. Maybe she just doesn’t realize her cellphone is off. We’ll find her. Let’s just take a breath, calm down and we’ll make a list of places she might have gone.”

Brianna’s voice reached them before she was through the front door. “Houston,” Brianna said. Connor hadn’t even heard her pull up in the driveway. Her short hair was in disarray, her eyes wide and her face every bit as pale as her father’s. She held out her cellphone, as if offering it to them. “She left me a voicemail. She stole my driver’s license plus one of my credit cards and went to Houston.”

Jen’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “Houston?”

The news was like a slap to the face. Immediately, he thought of the look on Claire’s face just two days earlier when Mitch had told her about Reynard’s long history of luring and molesting young girls. He should have known. Connor closed his eyes, willing himself to stay calm.

“Houston, Texas?” Rick said.

Connor opened his eyes and looked at Claire’s parents. “That’s where Reynard Johnson’s family lives. Mitch just got back from there, remember?”

Still, the Fletchers looked baffled. Brianna walked over to the couch. “She said she was going to try to find Emily Hartman,” she said.

Connor shook his head. “She went after him,” he said.

The Johnson estate was just as Mitch had described it to me. It was huge, stately, and imposing. It was a complex easily the size of the city block I’d grown up on, if not larger. A faded salmon-colored stone wall surrounded it. At the front entrance was a locked gate with an intercom and three cameras situated in different places, triangulating the entrance with their electronic eyes.

The gate and long wall were unexpected. Coming here had been an abstract idea gaining force and momentum in my mind in the last twenty-four hours. I hadn’t had the time or the foresight to figure out how I’d get in. In my mind’s eye, I just appeared inside the Johnson household confronting the first family member I happened upon.

But now I was locked out. I walked several yards west of the gate until I found a piece of crumbling wall beneath the overhanging bough of a large tree that stood on the outside of the estate.

Almost the instant I saw the tree, I decided to sneak in. I doubted anyone would let me in, and I had no time to coax or cajole my way onto the grounds. Emily had no time. The sooner I found Reynard, the sooner she would be free. I climbed the wall using the trunk of the tree for support. Dropping to the grass on the other side, I dusted my palms on my jeans and walked resolutely toward the Johnson mansion.

I was spurred on by the memory of Alison huddled naked in that closet filled with the putrid smell of fear, filth, and vomit. That had been me. That was Emily now. I didn’t know her—that was true—but in a way, saving her felt like saving myself. When I reached the front door, I did not knock. I let myself in and went in search of someone who would give me answers whether they liked it or not.

The foyer was enormous with vaulted ceilings and marble tiled floors. My footsteps echoed in the cool chamber. The floors, walls, and furniture were all swathed in muted earth tones. For a moment, I felt as if I’d stepped into a mausoleum. There were heavy double doors on both sides. A large set of stairs laid ahead of me and to the left of that, a long dark hallway. There was nothing inviting about the place. Even the still life paintings adorning the walls were flat and unexpressive.

I wrapped my arms around my middle and looked around. As I turned back in the direction of the front door, I was startled by the appearance of a young Hispanic woman. I didn’t hear her enter. It was as if she materialized out of thin air. She was dressed in jeans and a short-sleeved indigo sweater. Her hands were clasped at her waist. She was petite, shorter than me, her features small and refined. Her black hair was pulled back tightly in a bun, revealing a round face and coal black eyes.

The woman stared at me with a solicitous expression. She was waiting for me to notice her. I wondered how long she’d stood there, watching me in silence.

“You are trespassing on private property,” she said with a slight Spanish accent. Her face was a stone mask.