What Doesn’t Kill Her (8 page)

Jimmy, who she appreciated a lot more now that he was gone. At St. Dimpna’s, thinking about her family, it was Jimmy who she had missed the most, surprisingly. How she wished she could tell him what a really good older brother he’d been.

But there would be no bigger, better living quarters for her. She had only a GED earned in a mental institution, but she knew how to do this math:
the less she spent on herself, the more she’d have to track down the killer of her family.

Dr. Hurst had helped her find this simple single-room apartment, not far from St. Dimpna’s. Blue-collar, ethnically diverse, the historic Ohio City
district was far removed from her experiences in suburban Westlake. She might have been dropped on Mars. But she had already adjusted.

Getting this apartment meant she was an easy walk from St. Dimpna’s—she not only had no driver’s license, she hadn’t even finished driver’s ed yet when her life was yanked out from under her. This way, she would be close to her support group, and Kara.

The white-walled apartment was as spare as it was small, its kitchen little more than one wall with a few cupboards, an apartment-sized refrigerator, a small stove, a minuscule microwave, a single well sink, and a black-topped table with two chairs. This galley setup should be more than sufficient. Her mom had been a terrific cook, and Jordan had picked some of it up; but her menu would be salads and fresh fruit supplanted by microwave and boiling-bag cuisine.

The wall opposite was home to a laptop computer (the newly rich girl’s first major purchase), which—with its Internet connection—was the closest thing to a luxury in her monk-like existence… and even that was a tool for her investigation.

Under the windows, near the door to the tiny bathroom, a mattress and box spring crouched on the floor. She would never
ever
hide under another bed.

No television, no radio, no pictures on the wall. The only personal item was a photo of her family on a small plastic table near the head of the bed where it shared space with an LED alarm clock. An artist’s sketch pad on the dining table rested next to a box of colored pencils.

She had always been good at sketching. In another life, drawing had been a release, a simple pleasure—now it was a skill to be utilized. Just this morning, she had begun drawing. When she was finished, she would have a distributable picture of the man she sought. Recalling him vividly was not difficult—those ten years could be blinked away.

The alarm clock beeped. She uncurled, rose, and strode over to turn it off. Two hours until her next meeting with the Victims of Violent Crime. Funny—she would have expected a politically correct euphemism for the
group—Survivors’ Support Group maybe. As if they’d all been on a dumb reality TV show and got voted off.

No, somebody at Dimpna’s, maybe Dr. Hurst, understood that what she had been through, what David and Phillip and the rest had experienced, would not be soothed by soft language.

Just enough time to dress, get to St. Dimpna’s, then visit Kara beforehand. Normally, she would walk, but today, she would take her little green-and-white Vespa scooter (her other big investment), the only thing she could legally drive to get around. That way she could spend some extra time with Kara.

In the week since her first group meeting, Jordan’s existence had been almost as silent as before she’d seen that newscast. She left the apartment only to go to the grocery store. Her kung fu exercises were a twice-daily routine.

This was a self-taught, largely self-created form of martial arts training built upon what she’d learned five years ago from a Chinese kid who’d had some kind of breakdown. On his road to recovery, he shared with her what he called “the beneficial health maintenance” of Tai Chi. No one at Dimpna’s had objected, because she and her friend—one of the few friends she’d cultivated other than Kara—were really just pursuing an alternative form of exercise.

Upon this she had built a self-defense system amplified by books and videos she’d been able to obtain through inter-library loan. Whether its application would be practical or not remained to be seen.

Her modified Tai Chi and yoga kept her centered and calm. She had a goal and was working toward it. She was, however, wrestling with the contradictory nature of two promises—one to Dr. Hurst that she would participate in group, and the other to herself—that she would never tell the intruder’s story.

She would not give her attacker that satisfaction, even in the relatively private forum of the support group. Still, Jordan felt that she owed Dr. Hurst something. She had promised to talk, but about what? This distracting
thought was not enough to interfere with her mission, and merely provided a backdrop to her digging.

The Google search started simply enough, Jordan typing the phrase
family murdered
. That got her eight million hits, some of which had mentions of her family. Adding quotation marks narrowed the scope to 731,000, but by adding the phrase
Cleveland, Ohio
she knocked the total down to zero. Removing the quotes sent the total back up to over six million. Two steps forward, one step back.…

Her Net search was less a simple linear progression and more a process. Each step was more about trying something that got her more information without overwhelming. In this endeavor, patience wasn’t just a virtue, but a necessity. And it had been a slow go, at first, since she’d had no access to computers at St. Dimpna’s, and had to get computer literate on her own and in a hurry.

She hadn’t read any of the copious Internet stories about her family—she just couldn’t make herself go there. Not yet. That would be easy enough to track and no doubt there was information that would be new to her. She had no knowledge of the police investigation. Just an intimate acquaintance with what had happened in that house on that night.…

And, so far, there was precious little information online about the newscast murders, the slain family in Strongsville. She had learned the names of the family members, but not much else.

Looking into the Elkins case gave her an uneasy feeling—David had shared the tragedy with the group last week, freely; but as Jordan read articles from the
Plain Dealer
and other Internet sources, she felt somehow that she was invading his privacy, viewing pictures of his wife Belle and daughter Akina.

Belle had been a beautiful African-American woman, and—though Jordan had never heard of her—was evidently a well-known writer herself.

Jordan could see similarities between the crimes, but not between her family and the Elkinses’. The writer was almost wealthy, the family lived in a
different part of the metro area, the couple only had the one child (although Mrs. E.
had
been pregnant), and Akina had been much younger than either Jimmy or Jordan.

When Jordan entered the disinfectant-scented sunroom, Kara was already sitting on the couch.

As they bumped fists, Jordan said, “You’re looking good, girl. Healthy, even.”

“You, too.”

Jordan shrugged. “Stepped up the workouts a little, but what’s your excuse?”

Kara yawned, stretched, fists clenched, giving Jordan a glimpse of her friend’s scarred wrists. “Haven’t been having nightmares lately.”

“Cool.”

“Yeah. Haven’t dreamed about my stepfather fucking me for weeks now. Just him
trying
to fuck me.”

“Well, it’s a start.”

“Plus, I’ve been talking to Dr. Hurst. Doubled up on the sessions. Kind of… opening up a little. You must be a good role model.”

“A role model for opening up? Maybe not.”

Kara lifted a lecturing forefinger. “ ‘The secret to life is not surviving the storm, but learning to dance in the rain.’ ”

“This is the kind of bullshit Dr. Hurst is telling you?”

Kara shook her head. “Fortune cookie. They ordered takeout for us last night, special treat. Kinda seemed like good advice. How is your rain dance goin’?”

“If you mean me and Mr. Google, I’m mostly getting my toes stepped on.”

“How so?”

She told Kara about the first meeting of the group and how afterward she had added the Elkins case to the Net search mix.

Kara frowned. “You aren’t reading up on your own case?”

“No. That’ll come.”

“Okay, baby steps, I get it. But look how you’re limiting yourself, honey.”

“I just got out,” Jordan said defensively.

“Yeah, I remember. Who sprinkled the Dimpna Dust on who, anyway? Have you talked to this Elkins dude yet?”

“No.”

“Well, you must know that everything the cops have on a crime like that isn’t gonna be on the web. They always hold back some shit. Like maybe they’re working on how these two family killings are linked.”

Jordan frowned in thought. “I guess that is something they might keep back.”

“Damn straight. So the only place you might find
out
what the cops already know is—”

“By talking to them?”

“The cops? Hell no!”

“Oh.” Jordan nodded. “Elkins, you mean.”

“Actually, there’s one other place.”

“Yeah?”

Kara tapped a finger on Jordan’s forehead. “
You
, sweetie. How long have we known each other? And you never talked about what happened. Granted, you were playing mime games most of the time.”

“Mime games. Bad joke.”

“Good advice, though. Comparing notes with Elkins? Couldn’t that maybe get you someplace?”

“You mean… those similarities between the cases that the cops held back?”

“Like they say in the geezer wing, bingo! Plus, it might jar some stuff loose from the back of both your brains.”

“Huh?”

Kara shook her head and her pink-and-blue bangs bobbed. “It’s like my therapy with Dr. Hurst. Some things that I remembered, I only
thought
I remembered. When the doc and me started digging into it, she found what she called
false memories
.”

“Yeah?”

“It was my mind trying to protect me from something even worse than what I remembered.”

Jordan shook her head, once. “Believe me. I’m not doing that.”

Kara held her hands up, and the scars showed again. “Okay, but the only way to
really
find out is to start looking at what’s going on under all that black hair.”

Jordan’s eyes tightened. “Trust me, Kara, I know enough already.”

“You think so? You’re probably right.”

Jordan forced a smile as she got to her feet. “Appreciate the advice. Gotta get to group. I was late last week.”

Kara ignored that, looking up at her, a child with an old woman’s eyes. “Why did you suddenly want to get out of here? What made you finally break your… your vow of silence?”

Jordan pointed toward the nearest door and spoke evenly, softly, wanting no one but her friend to hear. “There’s a monster out there killing families. And if I don’t find him, and stop him, he’ll kill again and again.”

“
You’re
gonna stop him.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re gonna… kill him?”

“Oh yeah.”

Kara studied her for the longest time. “Nothing means more to you.”

“Nothing.”

“Honey, it sounds to me like you haven’t really broken that silence at all. Time to look back, and speak up. To yourself.”

“… Not that easy.”

“Hey, it’ll be easier on you than the next family that butcher singles out.”

Then Kara bolted to her feet and hugged her friend, so quickly there wasn’t anything Jordan could do about it. Then Kara was gone from the sunroom, as if Jordan were the one still imprisoned here.

Glancing at a wall clock, Jordan realized she really was almost late, and headed downstairs, fast as she could without running. When she arrived at the
classroom-like space, most of the group was already seated. Luckily for her, David Elkins was still over by the coffee urn, chatting with last week’s late arrival. What was that kid’s name?

Levi
, Dr. Hurst had called him. Like last week, the youngish man wore jeans and the holey Chuck Taylors. This time, the Hives were in for the Foo Fighters on his T-shirt, while the thriller writer had exchanged a black polo for last week’s navy one.

As she approached, Jordan ignored the younger man, hoping he would take the hint and buzz off, and said, “Mr. Elkins—I just wanted to say how sorry I am for your loss.”

He gave her a slight nod. “And I’m sorry for your loss, too. We all have that in common here. Expressions of sympathy are appreciated, but not required.”

Jordan wasn’t sure how to interpret that—had she committed another breach of protocol?

Still, she risked saying to him, “If you don’t mind, Mr. Elkins, when we’re through here? Might I have a moment of your time?”

“Certainly. And it’s David.”

She nodded. “And Jordan, please. I
would
like to talk to you.”

Levi, who hadn’t taken the hint, interjected, “And I’d like to talk to
you
, Jordan.”

Spinning to the guy, she said, “
Really
, jackass? Lookin’ for a date at group therapy? Pathetic.”

David stepped between them.

“It… it’s not like that,” the young man said.

Her teeth were bared. “You just keep your distance or we’re going to have a problem.”

David, still standing between them, held up a hand like a referee and said to her, “It really
isn’t
like that.”

“Jordan,” Levi said gently, a little afraid but summoning strength, “there’s no problem, really. I’m gay, all right?”

David turned to her and his eyes held hers. “Levi wants to talk to you for the same reason
I
want to talk to you… and you want to talk to me. His family was murdered, too.”

“Everything okay over there?” Dr. Hurst called from her seat in the circle.

“Just fine,” David said. “We were just making plans for some after-group socializing.”

“Well then,” the doctor said, “if you’ll join us, we can get started.”

Jordan turned her back to David, and to Levi, to the whole group. Flushed, she worked to hold back tears. She had just unleashed some of her rage on some poor gay kid, who, like her brother Jimmy, had already suffered way enough shit in his life. What was
wrong
with her?