Outsiders. Part 11

There's very little furniture; an old, beat-up recliner in front of a modest television set sits in the middle of the living room. Next to it is a cheap, pressboard TV tray with a dirty paper plate and three empty beer bottles. The white wall the chair faces is papered-literally papered-with pictures of Rebecca Ca.s.sidy. None of them show her posing or smiling at the camera, so it's glaringly obvious to me that they were taken without her knowledge. Many of them are grainy, telling me they were shot with a telephoto lens of some kind. The beam from the flashlight confirms my suspicions as it illuminates the rickety table standing below the pictures. Various lenses and camera equipment litter the surface. My stomach rolls sourly as I scan the photos again, notice the variety of locations, of activities. Walking, riding her bike, in her car, at a restaurant, in the grocery store, on a beach, everywhere. I notice the changes in her hair style and the maturing of her face and comprehend with a sick, sinking feeling that he's been following her, photographing her, for years. Years.It was probably years before she even realized it, before she got scared and called the cops and filed the restraining orders. I wonder how long he followed her before he actually made contact, because it's the contact that brought in the police; I have no doubt about that. I wonder if he's kicking himself now, if he's angry for not being able to resist.

I make my way through the rest of the apartment, and my question is answered when I get to the bedroom.

The room resembles the Spartan style of the living room, with only a double mattress on the floor, draped with rumpled, probably unwashed, sheets. A trail of wrinkled clothes leads, like Hansel and Gretel's breadcrumbs, to an overflowing laundry basket in the corner.

The walls are bare; I scan each of them with my flashlight and notice the closet door is ajar. When I open it, I'm stunned.

Inside is covered with images of Rebecca-side walls, rear wall, back of the door-but these are different. This is where the anger lives, hidden away in the closet where only Todd Bennett can access it.

There is red everywhere. Across her face in many of the photos, livid red slashes slicing her image. Her eyes are gouged out of several, literally gouged, as if he used his fingernails to do it. A handful of them are torn, ripped or lacerated, and I have a sudden vision of him standing here with a knife, hacking at them, hacking at her, his anger and emotions completely out of his control.

I remember Hayley's phone call. She told me that there were seven police reports filed by Rebecca in addition to the restraining orders. Until yesterday, she probably didn't know Todd had found her again. Since no police showed up, I can only a.s.sume she hasn't called them yet...she might be in shock or completely freaked out. Without her report, they have no way of knowing that he's not only up to his old tricks, but also dangerously close to going off the deep end. I wonder how long it was, after his release from prison the last time, before he took a knife and a red marker to the walls of this closet. I wonder how long it will be before he plans to kill her. I wonder if he's planned it already.

I wonder because that's the next step. It's always the next step. I've worked enough of these cases to understand that. My brain tosses me an image of a black body bag, zipped up tight, anonymous, though I know Jennifer Meyers is inside. The spectrum of stalker mentality always ends there: with a death. "If I can't have her, n.o.body will." I spend several more minutes looking at the closet, trying not to feel the anger and sickness that seem to have coated me like some foul oil, slick and sticky.

I only know two things for sure: Todd Bennett is a ticking time bomb, and I have to stop him.

Chapter Six.

What I've seen continues to make me nauseous even hours after I leave Bennett's apartment, and I'm staring at the ceiling of my hotel room, trying to catch a couple hours of sleep while Rebecca is at work. She works at a lab in Research Triangle Park where, it seems, half the local population works. Megan was able to hack into the security system's computers there, and now she can tell me when Rebecca's ID pa.s.s is swiped, letting me know she's safely inside where she is surrounded by people and her stalker isn't able to get to her. My memory sends me continuous flashes of his photos and the sickening red slashes through them. This case has taken a turn down the path I was hoping it wouldn't. I know what has to be done; it's as clear as a full moon on a cloudless night. But I'm not ready to make that call just yet. I have to let things absorb for a while. I have to ruminate, to ponder, to roll it around. I will inevitably come to the same conclusion, but this is the process I must follow. It's the only way to hold on to my sanity, my self-worth, my sense of right and wrong.

I sent Hayley a text on my way back from Bennett's little "art gallery" and told her I was going to try to grab a few hours of shut-eye. She worries about me getting enough sleep when I'm on a case, but I think my adrenaline kicks in and keeps me going. Once I get home, I usually sleep for twelve or fifteen hours straight. She'll give me time to rest, but then she'll call. I hope I'm ready to talk to her by then. I wish she were here now to hold me, to whisper in my ear that everything will be okay...that I'm a good person who does good things for people who can't help themselves...to make love to me, just for a while, just long enough to quiet the thoughts in my head.

But Hayley isn't here. I am alone with my thoughts.

The heavy hotel curtains are pulled tightly closed and the room is dark, but my eyes are wide open, and I turn onto my side and stare at the red numbers of the bedside clock-9:45 a.m. I've been awake for more than twenty-four hours and I sigh, knowing the only way I'll get any sleep is if I give in to the mental churning.

Is there another way?

That is the main question and I have to-I have to-explore every option, look at every angle, think of every possibility. It's only right. It's only fair. I am a good person; that's what a good person would do, isn't it?

Seven police reports. Two restraining orders. Two stints in jail. And he still came back. He still found her. He still tracked her. He still stalked her. Visits from the police obviously had little effect. Months in prison have made no difference. I think about his barren apartment, the fact that Hayley said he barely works enough to pay for the roof over his head. I flash on the photographs all over his living s.p.a.ce and realize that I don't recall any other items there that might take up his time. There were no books, no magazines; I didn't see a computer. There was no weight equipment, no bike. He has nothing to occupy his time but Rebecca. I don't imagine I have to tell you what bad news that is for her. The newspaper-letter note comes back to me and I suppress a shudder at the creepiness of getting something like that in the mail, no matter how stereotypical of a Lifetime movie it might be. I remember the look on Rebecca's face, the way she turned pale, how her eyes darted around like she was a cornered animal. At that moment, she must have been thinking exactly what I'm thinking now: he will never, ever leave her alone.

I s.n.a.t.c.h my BlackBerry off the nightstand and send another quick text to Hayley. I need information on Todd Bennett. Specific information. I can't make a decision without it.

I press Send and immediately feel more relaxed. It's my body's way of telling me I've worked out the details, gone over everything I can, everything I need to. It's time to rest. Once Hayley's reply comes, there will be a lot to do.

Sleep claims me.

I manage to get almost four hours of rest before my BlackBerry alarm wakes me up at 1:30. Sitting up against the headboard, I scroll through the e-mail that arrived as I slept and see the information I'd asked for from Hayley. Apparently, Todd Bennett has a brother in Seattle and his mother lives in Florida. Doesn't look like he has much contact with either of them. I can't really call what flows through me relief, but it's something along those same lines.

As I sit and think about calling Hayley, the phone rings in my hand and it's her, which spreads a grin across my face. We've always had this weird connection. We can finish each other's sentences, know what the other is thinking, stuff like that.

"Hi, sweetie," I say as a greeting.

"Did you get some sleep?" I can hear the love in her voice, even after so long together, and it grounds me.

"I did. More than a couple hours, even."

"Very good. And did you get my text?" When I hum my positive response, she continues. "Megan couldn't find any records of Todd having taken a flight to see either his mother or his brother, and there's nothing to indicate either of them have been to visit him. There aren't even any recent phone calls. Last time he spoke with his mother was from prison last year."

"Sounds like she got fed up with him."

"Wouldn't you?"

I snort my answer, not mentioning that it's been nearly two months since I last spoke to my own mother.

"So? Are you going to tell me what the deal is?" She knows me so well and, if I'm honest, it's actually almost liberating that she does. I don't have to try to hide things from her because I couldn't even if I wanted to. She can see right through me like I'm some clear stream, and my innermost thoughts and fears are just variously colored stones on the bottom. Fighting her is nothing more than a waste of time and energy, so I don't bother. I tell her all about Todd Bennett's apartment, the pictures, the camera equipment, the lack of anything other than his very basic needs for survival. She listens quietly, not interrupting, taking in the information. "Ugh," she says finally, and hilariously, it's the perfect word. It's exactly how I feel.

"I think we should call Pax." There. I said it. I don't feel any better, but at least it's out in the open.

"I think so too," Hayley says, her voice grave, and again, something like relief floods my system. Hayley doesn't move without thinking. She doesn't make snap decisions or judgments, and she knows how hard it is for me to say the words I just did. "I'll make the call."

"Okay."

"It's all right, Norah." Her voice is softer this time, gentle, soothing. "It's all right. Just think about the balance."

"Okay."

We hang up with her promising to get right back to me with the results of her call. I feel heavy, which is not unexpected, so I drag my a.s.s out of bed and open the curtains. Sunshine pours in on me, warm and peaceful, and I rest my forehead against the cool gla.s.s of the window.

Just think about the balance.

I've never really told anybody but Hayley about the names that show up out of the blue in the middle of the night. However, I did sort of gingerly approach the subject with my mother once, when I was in my early twenties and felt I might be getting the hang of the whole weirdness. We spoke in the morning near the holidays when I still visited on a regular basis.

"Mom? Do you believe in G.o.d?" We were seated at the dining room table and enjoying the breakfast that was being served by Mrs. James, our cook. I bit into a strawberry as I studied my mother's once-beautiful face and, if she was surprised by such an out-of-the-blue question, she didn't show it.

Her light eyebrows furrowed as she thought, and I was grateful to have this time of the morning with her, all to myself. It was a mere hour or two before she'd indulge in her first c.o.c.ktail and become unreachable for the rest of the day. I loved that she was seriously contemplating my question. She finally turned her gaze to me, softly blue and intense, eyes that I've been told are exactly like mine.

"I'm not sure about a G.o.d, but I believe in the Universe," she said, choosing her words carefully.

"The universe?"

"With a capital U. I believe that the Universe has a plan and the Universe makes things happen...or doesn't."

I must have looked puzzled because she went on, speaking slowly, as if trying to come up with the best explanation for me to understand what was in her heart. "When I say 'the Universe,' I guess I mean, the World, or maybe Destiny is a better word. Or Fate. Whatever the correct phrase is, I think the Universe makes sure that the world has balance."

"Balance."

"Yes. Like...a balance of opposites. I think there's a balance of dark and light, a balance of right and wrong, a balance of good and evil. And there are often times when it feels like things are terribly off-kilter, that one side is alarmingly heavier than the other, but then the Universe steps in and corrects the balance." She made a face, part frustration and part question, obviously wondering if I grasped what she was saying.

"And how do you think the Universe corrects the balance when it needs to?" I liked the theory; I liked it a lot. It made some weird kind of sense to me, especially given my lack of explanation for what I was apparently expected to do with my life.

"I don't know for sure, Norah. But I think some things happen for a reason, and I think some people are put on this earth to help maintain the balance. Doesn't it put the smallest bit of clarity on things like natural disasters and murder and execution and birth and death?"

It did. She was right about that. I'd always had a problem with the idea of an all-knowing, all-seeing, all-loving G.o.d because I was never able to wrap my brain around the idea of innocent suffering. Yes, I got the concept of faith and free will and humans choosing their paths. I understood that the child molester has free will and chose to abuse the three-year-old, but where does the three-year-old fit in? Is she merely a prop? Why does she have to suffer because the child molester has chosen to be a sick son of a b.i.t.c.h? Why do innocent animals die horrible deaths because men use their free will to wager on dog fighting? Where does free will come in when we're dealing with terrible illnesses like AIDS or Huntington's or Parkinson's? It has never made any sense to me that a supposedly all-loving G.o.d would allow his "creations" to endure such pain or do such awful things to each other.

After that discussion, I began to wonder if I was some "instrument of the Universe," and it was a concept I could actually embrace and be okay about. I like the idea of helping to maintain the balance of things and for the most part, I enjoy it.

But not today.

My phone buzzes and it's Hayley calling me back.

"Pax will be on the next flight." She gives me the flight details and a meeting place, and I jot them down. Pax always sets up these things, and I just go along. I understand why she needs to maintain complete control of every aspect of her situation-so she can be gone in a heartbeat if need be-and I don't argue. I'd do the same thing in her sizable shoes. And in a way, I amin her shoes, which freaks me out a little bit.

"Don't worry," Hayley says.

"I'm not."

"Yes, you are. You're not saying much and that means you're stuck inside your head. Don't worry. You're doing the right thing."

"Yeah? According to who?" My tone is bitter, and I don't mean to lash out at Hayley, but who else would understand?

"Well, I can imagine Rebecca Ca.s.sidy would agree with me."

That shuts me up because, as usual, Hayley is right.

Chapter Seven.

Pax is one scary b.i.t.c.h, and you can tell that everybody in her path thinks the same thing. They can't move fast enough to get out of her way. As I watch her head in my direction, I can only imagine what kind of picture she made as she lumbered silently through the Raleigh-Durham airport, a modest building full of well-mannered, friendly southerners who wouldn't want to stare, but probably couldn't help it.

I used some very questionable contacts of my father's about six years ago to make my first and only contact with her. She scared the c.r.a.p out of me then, and I realize that hasn't changed at all as she makes her way to my car in the parking lot of Southpoint Mall near the movie theater. This section of the lot is set away from the rest of the mall, so n.o.body walking the street of shops can see us, or at least, not clearly. Pax is at least six feet tall, if not taller, with impossibly broad shoulders and the most enormous hands I've ever seen on a woman. Her face is chiseled, all sharp angles, and her smooth skin seems almost out of place. She wears her dark hair very short, and I've never seen her without her leather jacket and Doc Martens. She's literally a walking stereotype, which would make me chuckle if I weren't so busy trying to keep my knees from knocking in terror. I know for a fact that behind the ever-present sungla.s.ses, her eyes are a startling blue; I've only seen them once, but they shocked me speechless, they were so pretty, surrounded by what I can only call very feminine dark lashes. Regardless of the intimidation factor, there is something about her-a hum or an aura or something I can't quite put my finger on-that almost resembles s.e.x appeal, which feels so wrong to me given how she makes her living.

It's just after five o'clock and according to Megan's digging, Todd Bennett actually has to work for a few hours this evening, so I have a reprieve from worrying about Rebecca's safety, at least for a little while. Pax slides effortlessly into the pa.s.senger seat of my rental, which should be impossible considering her bulk, but she moves like a cat...a really big, fearsome cat, but a cat just the same.

There's no small talk. She nods a greeting, and I hand over the file I created for her on my laptop in my hotel room and printed in the business center off the lobby. It has all the information she needs about Todd Bennett, Rebecca Ca.s.sidy, their history, their addresses, the police reports and restraining orders, any tidbits Megan happened to dig up, all of it. I sit silently and give her time to absorb each piece, which she does very quickly.

"How do you want to play this?" she asks, and I'm just as surprised as I was the first time I heard her voice. She sounds like a woman, like any other woman in the world. I expect her to have a voice that goes with her appearance, something sinister and rough, like gravel in a blender. Instead, she sounds like...well, me.

I outline my plan and give her my thoughts, being completely honest about everything that's been rolling around in my brain for the past four hours. It's one thing to understand and accept what Pax does as a career, but that doesn't mean I can't express my own reservations about likely taking such an irreversible step.

She listens quietly, nodding on occasion, but not interrupting until I finish. Then she surprises me by removing her sungla.s.ses and looking me dead in the eye. Mentally, I squirm and part of me worries that if I look directly at her, I might turn to stone or a pillar of salt or one of those myths.

"Seems like you don't have any other option." Her words are simple, her voice matter-of-fact, but I'm hit with the weirdest sensation that she gets my turmoil, and I don't know quite what to do with that.

"I'm hoping that when we give him the chance, he'll change my mind."

"I guess we'll see." Doubt shades her tone. She grabs the door handle with her huge, powerful mitt and asks, "He works until nine tonight?"

I nod.

"I'll meet you there at eight-thirty. Just come to the door. I'll already be in."

With that, she's gone, and I have never been able to figure out how somebody so big and imposing can just slip away into the ether so fast. I exhale loudly, only now realizing that I'd been taking shallow little breaths to calm my apprehension at being that close to someone so deadly. "Jesus Christ," I mutter and rub at my tired eyes.

I hate stalker cases.

"Talk to me." My command to Hayley is gentle, but she understands. I want to feel normal, average, everyday. I just want her to talk about mundane, boring things we share so I can stop dwelling, if only for a moment, on the crazy circ.u.mstances that make up my life.

"Hmm. Let me see." I flop back onto my hotel-room bed and picture her, stretched out on our leather sofa in her sock feet, probably under the forest green afghan. "I found a squirrel in our squirrel-proof bird feeder today. Or rather, Duncan did."

Duncan is our terrier. We rescued him from the shelter three years ago. He's about eighty pounds of sheer att.i.tude crammed into a twenty-pound body, and we love him fiercely.

"Did the poor squirrel die of heart failure?" I ask, a smile in my tone.

"Luckily, no. I still can't figure out how it happened, but when I unhooked the feeder and lowered it toward the ground, he slipped out and ran away like a shot."

"I'd run, too, if Duncan was on my scent." We laugh together, and I'm starting to feel the slightest bit better. "What else?"

"I made him an appointment with the groomer for next week."

"Thank G.o.d. I don't know how he's not walking into walls by now." His wiry hair grows like a weed and flops over his eyes. It's adorable, to say the least, but I suspect there comes a point where the poor dog can't see a d.a.m.n thing. "What else?" The tension is seeping away from me, like water sliding off my body.

"My dress for the fundraiser came." The lilt in her voice tosses me a vision of the twinkle that is surely sparkling in her eyes. Despite the thousand times I've told her she can absolutely go shopping at any real store she wants, Hayley prefers to shop online. Frankly, I think she likes getting packages in the mail, and she giggles like a little kid when one arrives, so who am I to criticize?

"Which one did you go with?" She showed me her three final choices early last week-a royal blue satin number with puffy shoulders, a black one, sleeveless and sleek, and something in jade green with subtle gold trim. I cross my fingers.

"The black."

"Yes!" I pump a victorious fist in the air. Go ahead and call me simple. I can't help it; black is d.a.m.n s.e.xy. "And? How does it look?"

"Get your a.s.s home and I'll model it for you. I might even let you take it off me."

Her flirtatious tone relaxes me more, and a little thrill surges through me when I think about the envious looks that will be thrown my way next month. The fundraiser is for a local children's hospital, one with a wing named for me. I have donated millions of dollars to them and will continue to do so as long as I draw breath. The gala event happens once a year in the spring, and it's a who's who of wealthy New Yorkers. Many of them-most of them, really-will be absurdly rich, older, white men who would pay almost any price to have a woman like Hayley on their arm. The fact that she'll be on mine will make most of them gnash their teeth and wonder what I have that they don't. The answer to that question, of course, is her.

"I'm hoping to be home very soon," I say, snapping back to the conversation. "And I will take it off you. With my teeth."

"Promises, promises." We're quiet for several seconds, just basking in one another's presence. When Hayley speaks again, her tone changes with the subject. "I know she freaks you out a little bit, but I'm glad Pax will be there tonight. I don't trust Todd Bennett. He reminds me too much of Brant." I can almost feel the shudder run through her body.

"He's definitely got some screws loose. Honestly, Hayley, his apartment gave me the heebie-jeebies. Obsession is definitely not s.e.xy. It's frightening."

"You're preaching to the choir, babe."