Instinct (23 page)

           
What
r u doing? R u in danger?????

           
Going
2 get him 2 confess. U r just in case.

Another long
pause ensues and I bite my lip, worrying he won’t agree and I’ll have to come
up with some other plan. Finally he replies, and I can practically hear his
misgivings.

           
Not
happy about this. R u sure?

           
Am
doing this no matter what.

           
I’ll
b there.

Smiling
grimly, I tuck the phone away, thinking about how I can arrange things to work
in my favor. I know that once I start asking him questions, Shockey will answer
me, but I’m not sure how long it will take to get a full confession. Given how
easily someone as stubborn as Radcliffe caved, I have no doubt my ability will
work on a pathetic worm like Shockey. But if he resists, if it takes too long,
he might panic and run, and then I’ll never get another chance.

Proving what
he did to Miranda will be next to impossible without his confession. The
evidence, if there is any left, is probably too old and circumstantial to be
worth anything. But if I can get him on tape admitting to the rape, maybe Cathy
will corroborate with her own experience. I can’t see him squirming out of
that.

There is no
fear for myself. I trust Cole to intervene if things get physical, though I
tend to think Shockey will be too freaked out to come near me. Besides, one
look from Cole and Shockey will be on his hands and knees blubbering in terror.
He won’t be much of a threat then.

I look down at
my phone again and flip through the programs until I find the voice recorder.
I’ve used this application so many times, although never without my
interviewee’s consent. It’s considered unethical and in many cases illegal to
record someone without their permission.

Somehow, I
really don’t care right now.

Another
thought strikes me and I send a quick text to Mom, telling her that Cole is
picking me up. The last thing I need is to have her wandering the hallways
looking for me. It’s going to be unpleasant enough explaining everything after
the fact.

The idea swims
across my mind that I am putting myself at serious risk, not just by
confronting a known rapist, but by using my ability to bring him to the
attention of the authorities. Getting all the dirt and then smoothing it out
for an article is different from handing over a recording of me pushing for a
confession to the police. No doubt they will question why Shockey is willing to
admit what he’s done to a high school journalist without any obvious threat,
but I can’t worry about that just now. Not if I’m going to get justice for
Miranda and Cathy.

I put my phone
away and stare at my empty computer screen, unable to focus on anything but the
questions I will ask, planning the best approach for a quick confession. I am
so wound up with nervous energy I nearly fall out of my chair when Jake rolls
over to me, his stormy blue eyes searching mine anxiously.

“I’m worried
about Cathy,” he says under his breath. I look at him in surprise, realizing
for the first time I am hearing him reveal something other than his conflicted
feelings about our bizarre relationship.

“What was
that?” I ask, leaning forward without my usual hesitation. His eyes register
surprise for a moment but it fades as he glances over toward the corner where
Cathy is frantically typing, her head dipped so low her hair brushes the
keyboard. Everything about her screams submissive.

I am painfully
reminded of the Miranda of my nightmares, the fragile wisp that faded to
nothing under Phillip’s green gaze. I imagine her shoulders must have bowed in
the same way; her eyes would have been lowered, ashamed. A fierce
protectiveness washes over me and I have to grip down hard to keep myself from
rushing out right now to attack Shockey.

Beside me Jake
gasps and I glance down to see I haven’t gripped the chair as I thought, but my
hand clasps his, our fingers wrapped together like a promise.

Quickly I jerk
my hand free, but I can see the triumph in Jake’s eyes before he hardens his
expression. I wait for him to comment, to push, but he just darts a look at
Cathy again and lowers his voice.

“Something’s
wrong. I usually run into her at her locker and we walk to class together, but
she wasn’t there. She’s obviously been crying.” He hesitates and then
continues, a tint of fury coloring his tone. “Is it just me, or did she seem
scared of Shockey?”

I am impressed
at his perception, how quickly he connected the dots. As far as I’ve been able
to tell, he is usually too preoccupied with himself to discern the feelings of
others. But now as anger leaks from his pores like a vapor, it is concern that
dominates his expression. It is unnervingly appealing.

Forcing myself
to focus, I give him an appraising look. “What makes you say that?”

“I don’t
know…she kind of…shrank when he came in.” Jake shrugs, clearly uncomfortable
with being so open. “I could just feel it.”

Since he is so
good at causing fear, he should be familiar with the signs, I think wryly, but
I don’t say it out loud. There is a tenuous rapport between us I am unwilling
to shatter just now.

“Could be,” I
admit warily, keeping my real thoughts to myself. Although I am pleased to see
him thinking of someone else, I am not ready to tell him all my plans just yet.
Cole is far more reliable, and I don’t dare jeopardize my chance to ensnare
Shockey.

Back to form,
Jake gives me a frustrated glare and tightens his lips. “Whatever. Sorry to
have bothered you,” he growls, the flash of black in his eyes unmistakable.

Even as I
congratulate myself for not giving into my momentary desire to confide in him,
disappointment is a stone in my chest at the stiffness in his posture, the easy
descent into brittle temper. He is so strong and so weak at the same time and a
pang of regret stabs through me before I pull away, returning to my computer
and the task ahead. After a moment he gives an irritated grunt and moves back
to his side of the room, sinking the room into an uneasy silence once more.

The rest of
the period passes slowly, each second inching along with an unbearable pressure
and a mounting feeling of doubt. I question my plan over and over, terrified
that I am taking the wrong step, that somehow I will make things worse. But
each time I move to text Cole to halt the plan, I glance over at Cathy’s
desolate form and feel the despair surrounding her in a dark aura.

I have no
choice. I can’t let this happen again.

I should have
stopped him before now. Cathy should never have been hurt.

I let the
guilt add fuel to the fiery core in my chest, converting it into a stronger
substance, tempering it with steel and grit until a fierce blade of resolve
takes shape, giving me the nerve to ignore my own trepidation and do what must
be done. 

When the tone
sounds to announce the end of the school day, I remain in my seat, pretending
to take my time shutting things down, looking around on the floor for an
imaginary pencil, anything that gives me an excuse to linger. Cathy is first
out the door, and Jake follows her almost instantaneously. Shane hangs around
for a bit, watching me with a blend of amusement and concern, but he finally
gives up and leaves. Megan gives me a tentative wave and follows Shane out. I
wonder for a moment if I might make a friend there and a blossom of hope
sprouts in my mind before I shut it down, knowing I have no right to it until I
have fulfilled my promise to Nicole.

I hear the
muffled explosions of students laughing and talking as they exit the main
classroom, the distant slam of lockers, the buzz of excited adolescence
vibrating in the floors. Finally, it is quiet. I turn on the recorder on my
phone and place it out of sight beside the computer, trusting that it will work
the way it’s supposed to, that it won’t fail me when it matters most.

Glancing at
the clock on the wall, I see it is almost three forty-five and I take a deep
breath, trying to squelch my writhing stomach, the dizzy swirling in my head.

The doorknob
turns. The squeaking protest of the hinges is like a scream to my suddenly
hypersensitive ears. My heart pounds hard against my ribs, the loudest thing
I’ve ever heard.

“I can smell
your fear,” Shockey says quietly, tilting his head as though asking me a
question. I take a shaky breath and force myself to smile and speak in an even
voice.

“Why was Cathy
so upset today?” I ask, putting as much force behind the question as I can.
Shockey blinks in surprise and then answers, his lips moving slowly, precisely,
as though the words are being carved from his mouth with a scalpel.

“She didn’t
like when I put my hand up her shirt.” He sucks in a breath and gives me a
bewildered look, one I have come to recognize so well. My panic begins to
subside and I stand, training my eyes on him mercilessly.

“Why did you
do that, Mr. Shockey?”

“Because I
like to touch young girls. I like to hurt them.” He is breathing hard now and
backing towards the door. Alarmed, I stalk toward him, pushing him in the
opposite direction, toward the wall.

“Did you touch
Miranda, too? Did you hurt her?” I demand, amazed at how calm I sound, how perfectly
in control.

He clenches
his jaw, as though to trap the damning words inside, but he can’t help himself
and he answers, panic leaking into his eyes.

“Yes.”

“What did you
do to Miranda, Mr. Shockey?”

“I…I made her
touch me…I…why am I saying this?” His voice trembles wildly and I can hear
hysteria creep into his tone.

“What did you
do to Miranda?” I repeat, relentless, knowing I have to get it out of him
before he breaks.

“I raped her,
I raped her, I took her in my car and I put my hand over her mouth and promised
her if she ever told on me I would come to her house and do it again.”

The air is filled
with the animal sounds of his terror, and he stares wildly at me as though I am
a demon sent to torture him. Maybe I am.

“When did you
rape Miranda?” I urge, knowing I have to get as much detail as possible if this
is going to hold up.

“In October, a
few weeks before she died…she was walking home from school and I took her in my
car to the campsite over the bridge and I raped her. I did it twice and then I
left her there.” He is openly weeping now, slowly sinking down to his knees
against the wall.

“Did you kill
her?” I ask before it’s too late, knowing I have only moments before he breaks
away.

“No, no I
didn’t kill her! Please…” he pleads, extending a hand toward me.  I jerk away
and despite the disgust roiling through me, satisfaction flares in my chest and
I feel as though I can breathe a little easier.

“You’re going
to jail, Shockey. You sick bastard,” I growl and spit on the floor in front of
him. He cowers there, everything about him flaccid and worthless, defeated,
ruined.

I take a step
back, moving toward my phone, readying myself to flee before he gathers his
wits.

I am too slow.

He strikes
like a snake, without warning, in a flash of violence so intense my head spins,
knocking me off balance. His hands are around my neck, vice-like, iron wedges
driving into my throat with incredible force. I claw at him, frenzied, black
spots dancing around my vision as I struggle for air, knowing with doomed
certainty how stupid I’ve been, how my rage made me careless, dismissive of the
instinct of every cornered beast to strike out, to maim the thing that has
forced it to the edge.

“Cole,” I
gasp, realizing that he should have come in already, but the door remains
closed. I kick at Shockey’s legs, his knees, connecting hard enough that he
grunts, but he doesn’t let go. Suddenly we are on the floor and his body weighs
me down, heavier than I imagined, hips grinding me into the rough carpet as
though he can push me through the concrete into the ground. Oblivion is hovering,
waiting to drag me under, stealing my fight and I grapple with renewed vigor,
ignoring the burning in my throat, the slice of his too-long nails digging into
my skin. My knee strikes against his groin, but barely disrupts him, too weak
to do any real damage.

Instead he
laughs and removes a hand from my throat to fumble at the buttons of my jeans,
forcing a new, deeper punch of terror through me.

“I’ll kill
you, you freaky little bitch,” he growls, the venom of his spit dropping on my
face like acid. The world is dark around the edges and I flail uselessly,
trying to reach something I can hit him with. I have only seconds left and
desperation takes away any rational thought process until I am only a vessel of
instinct, a last gasp, a final strike.

I feel his
hardness pressing against me and every nerve revolts, giving me one last surge
of strength. Ignoring the protest of my battered neck, I twist with
excruciating effort until I can see his snarling face and stab my thumb into
his eye, pushing into the pulpy mass, feeling the bile rise in my throat,
strangling me. He howls with pain and wrath and jerks his hand away from my
pants to pull my thumb away. His grip on my throat loosens slightly and I turn
my head to bite down hard on his arm, feeling the pop as his skin breaks, the brackish
copper of his blood filling my mouth.

He releases me
long enough to grab my head and slams it hard against the floor, white lights
flashing across my vision, stunning me. Sucking in a deep breath, I scream, but
the sound is barely more than a harsh rasp. It seems to infuriate him, and he
gives an animalistic growl, his eyes no longer resembling anything human.

He does
something to my ribs with his elbow that leaves me wheezing with agony before
he strikes my face so hard I hear my neck crack and then his hands are on my
throat again and I know this is it. I am already suffocating and my hips buck
uselessly beneath his bulk.