Still,
there was enough light to see that she was having a shot of tequila with Patty
at the bar.
She swiped to the next
image.
Now, she and Patty were
dancing in the center of the dance floor, a crush of people around them, some
with their hands lifted above their heads.
She stared at the photo.
She
had no recollection of dancing last night.
She
swiped to the next photo and saw that she and Patty were back at the bar and
downing another shot.
She was
sweaty and laughing.
Patty was bent
over and appeared to be in hysterics.
The bartender, a good-looking man with dark hair and a masculine face,
was looking at them in amusement.
She
swiped to the next photo, and this time it was just her, alone, standing at the
bar.
Patty was nowhere in
sight.
Looking at herself, she
could see her insecurities stamped on her face, but then she always was
uncomfortable when she was alone.
Her face looked grim.
Her
arms were folded in front of her.
She was looking off to her left, which is where the restrooms were.
The crowd was noticeably thinner.
The night was winding down.
Swipe.
Patty
was back, this time with a man.
Just as she herself was leaning against the bar for support, Patty was
leaning against this stranger for the same reason.
Her arm was draped over his neck.
He was big, younger than them, muscular.
He looked sober, but they looked
wasted.
Cheryl switched to the next
photo and this time they were outside in the parking lot with the man.
They were standing beside Patty’s white
Jetta, which was next to an illumined streetlamp that cast light down upon
them, and Cheryl was smoking.
The
man was kissing Patty’s neck.
His
hands gripped her ass.
Cheryl
looked over at the image of herself and saw that her finger was raised, as if
she was wagging it at them, even though she was laughing.
Swipe.
Patty
was in the car with him, her hand waving out the open window as she drove away
from Cheryl, who was still beneath the streetlamp, holding onto it to steady
herself while she looked over her shoulder.
For the first time, she was facing the
camera.
Though her lips were
parted, her expression was otherwise blank.
Her
heart quickened.
She flicked her
finger across the screen again and this time, she was unprepared for what she
saw.
She was lying on the
pavement.
Blood was spattered like
a net across her face.
There was a
dazed look in her eyes, as if whatever happened to her had just h
appened.
A man’s boot―large, dirty and old
to the point that it looked worn out―covered her mouth and mashed her
face to one side.
She was
too upset to look at the other photos, but she knew she had to, if only to see
the story they told and how it might inform how she might get out of this
now.
She flicked through them.
She saw herself in the back of a truck
bed, her hands and feet tied behind her with rope, a ball gag strapped around
her head and shoved into her mouth, Duct tape over her eyes to seal them
shut.
Another
photo, this one brightly lit.
At
this point, he obviously felt safe enough to use the flash.
She was in the forest now, flat on her
back, the ball gag still in her mouth, but now the tape was off her eyes and
with them wide open and exposed, they reflected pure terror.
She went
through the rest of the photos and in each one, her face and body seemed to
expose more blood and bruises.
He
was actively beating her when he took the photos.
By the last set, she was on her stomach,
her head was turned to her right, her eyes were closed, the ball gag was
removed from her sagging mouth, and water shined brightly on her face, which
was smeared with dirt.
She was
unconscious.
But
right now, she was alive, perhaps only for a moment, because behind her was
movement in the woods.
CHA
PTER FIVE
Before
she died the first time, some nine years ago when she was a junior at the
University of Maine studying English, Cheryl Dunning was another person.
She saw
the world through different eyes.
She’d had her share of ups and downs like anyone else, but certainly
nothing life shattering.
Nothing
that would make her question the world and redefine who she was, which is what
did happen to her.
Until
the day her life ended, she was like many of her fr
iends―reasonably
happy.
And sometimes, when she
wrote something she liked, read something she loved or met a boy she thought
was cute, she was unreasonably unhappy.
Instead
of having one friend, as she now had in Patty, Cheryl had many friends.
She was popular.
She was considered pretty.
Some in the English program admired her
writing.
They said she had skill
and talent.
“One day, I can see you
writing novels,” a few of her more secure fellow writing students would
say.
“You’ve got a way with
dialogue.”
Her writing teachers
agreed.
And
Cheryl Dunning saw a future for herself.
It was
at her friend Diane’s dinner party, which consisted of Domino’s pizza, red wine
and beer spread out on a table lit with stubby green candles, that she met Mark
Rand.
He seemed
nice.
He was tall, black hair, blue
eyes―her type, right down to the cleft in his chin.
He played baseball, which would have
turned her off if he didn’t come off so well.
Like her, he was a reader.
Like her, Fitzgerald was his favorite
auth
or.
Like her, he thought that Kerouac was
full of shit and overrated.
They
disagreed when it came to “Ulysses,” which he admired but which she thought was
over-written tripe, but that he had his own point of view just made him more
interesting to her.
Before
he raped her and cut her throat and left her to die behind Diane’s apartment
complex, where a neighbor heard their struggle and was smart enough to question
it, she found herself enjoying his company and his charm.
She
flirted with him.
He flirted with
her.
They stole a kiss outside
Diane’s bathroom.
He pressed close
to her and she could feel him against her leg.
She wasn’t about to have sex with him,
but making out was an option.
When
they left the party an hour later, each was a little drunk on beer and more
than a little high on their mutual attraction.
“I want
to fuck you,” he said when they stepped outside.
He said
it so directly, it made her laugh.
“Kidding,”
he said.
“You’re
hilarious.”
“But I
do find you attractive.”
She
smiled.
“And I’d
love it if you gave me a blow job.”
She
didn’t answer because she wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol talking or his
attempt at humor.
She just went
with it and pretended she didn’t hear him.
Boys and their blow jobs.
She liked him, but she had strict rules when it came to sleeping with
someone, and she never broke them.
They’d make out.
That’s as
far as it would go.
If they decided
they’d like to see each other again, they’d take it from there.
Maybe
after the fifth date, if there is one.
Diane’s
apartment house was on a quiet street that backed up against woods.
It was the beginning of autumn and it
still was reasonably warm.
It was
dark, so they went just inside the woods and found a tall pine tree to lean
against.
At
first, he was gentle.
He cupped her
face in his hands and kissed her lightly on the mouth.
He whispered in her ear, told her how
beautiful she was, and she began to enjoy herself.
It was awhile before he put his tongue
in her mouth, but the way he did it was so sexy, she decided she didn’t mind
and leaned into it, kissing him back hard.
It was a
mistake.
His hand
dropped between her legs and he started to feel her.
She nudged his hand aside and said in
his ear, “Just this.
This is nice.
Just this.
OK?”
“What
about this?”
He took her hand and
placed it on his erection.
“What
about that?
You can’t ignore it
now.
You made that happen.”
She could smell the wine on his
breath.
It hadn’t bothered her
before, but now it smelled rotten, probably because of the edge in his voice.
“Mark,” she
said.
“Come on.
We’re just getting to know―”
She
could recall the first blow that struck the side of her head, but when the
second came, there was nothing but blackness.
In retrospect, she liked to think that
her body protected her from remembering the violence of what happened
next.
Three
days later, in her private room at Eastern Maine Medical Center, she woke from
her coma.
Two days later, she was
told that she had died from a severe loss of blood.
Her doctor said that she had been raped,
her throat cut.
The police wanted
to talk to her, but the doctor held them off for another day so she could
continue to regain her strength.
When
they did come, they let her know that Mark Rand was in jail and that the judge
had refused bail.
Because she was
ruled dead for those two minutes before they were able to revive her, Rand was
being held for second-degree murder, rape, and a host of other charges.
When she
left the hospital, she dropped out of school and went to live with her parents.
Six
weeks later, she learned she was pregnant with his child.
An
abortion was scheduled for the following week.
But it didn’t happen.
Whether it was because her body had been
through so much physical abuse and was still healing, or because news of the
pregnancy had caused her great emotional stress, Cheryl Dunning miscarried in
the shower.
When she
began to hemorrhage, she was taken to the hospital again, where she remained
for four additional days before leaving the place a harder, wiser, different
person.
CHAP
TER SIX
The
movement was off to her left.
She
looked over and all she could see was a vast landscape of woods, some of which
were so thick, she couldn’t see beyond the trees, especially the fir and spruce
trees, which grew into each other in such a way, it was as if they were
conspiring against her.
Whoever
brought her here was likely just beyond them, watching her and waiting for her
to make her move.
She got
her feet under herself and stood.
The pain was there, drumming for attention, but what was happening to
her now snuffed it.
Her own
survival trumped everything.
She
stood still and listened.
It was
quiet, not silent.
Leaves fell to
the forest floor from the surrounding maples, oaks, elms and birches.
Birds flew above her, navigating seamlessly
through the maze of foliage as if doing so was nothing to them.
She could hear the sound of her own
breath, the cool breeze at her back, and the undeniable sound of the occasional
footstep as it rested softly on the wet pine needles that worked to betray it.
Even in
these boots with their thick high heels, Cheryl Dunning didn’t question whether
she could run, but whether she could ou
trun him―whoever he was.
She didn’t question whether she had
fight within her, because she did, but whether it was enough if he had
something that could drop her, like a gun.
She didn’t think about the pain that threatened to consume her if she
allowed i
t to, because if she did, she knew he would win.
All she thought about was how best to
get through this.
She wasn’t a
fool.
She knew the odds were
against her.
But if she listened to
her gut, she sensed that if he had wanted to kill her, he already would have
done so.