Anywhere But Here (36 page)

“How did they catch this guy?” I asked, my mind whirring.

“The police pulled him over for erratic driving.  They suspected he was drunk,” she said, her eyes trained to the television.  “One of the officers noticed a stain on the back seat. I don’t know all the details but apparently, the stain turned out to be blood and when they searched the car, they found items of clothing. 
Girls’ clothing.”

I swallowed a huge lump and nodded, not sure what to say.  “And he confessed?”

She nodded, her eyes watering.  “I guess he gave the police a hair sample and his DNA matched that which was found on Robin Frieze’s body.  I think he confessed after that and admitted that she wasn’t his only victim.”  She scrubbed her weary face, her hands still shaking.  She was holding tightly to a thin strand of composure but it was threatening to break.

I controlled my emotions a bit better – concentrating on my irritation that we had to wait around for someone to tell us something.  It was working, surprisingly.  “Where is my father?”

“Home.  With your mom.”

That was a new development.  Would this slice of drama draw my parents back together?  “Jared?”

“He’s with them,” she said, succinctly.

I nodded and continued to pace, wondering if I should be home, too.  I knew I should be there – that we should all be together as a family – as pathetic as my family was at this time. But I didn’t think I could stand it.  And what if this guy had nothing to do with Camille’s disappearance?  I’d have to come all the way back so I didn’t miss any more school.  At least, that’s what I told myself to fend off the guilt.

I paused to glance at the television in time to see a photo collage of Robin Frieze – her bright, shining face jumping out of each shot.  She’d been vibrant and oozed health and happiness in every picture.  But now she was resting in a cold grave – a young life ended far before its time.

“Rena, honey,” Aunt Franki said.  “It’s getting late and I seriously doubt if we’ll hear anything tonight.”

“Do you actually think I’ll be able to sleep?” I asked.  I could already picture myself tossing and turning in my bed, trying desperately to shut my mind down enough to sleep.  I knew it wouldn’t happen.

“Probably not,” she mused.  She cast a helpless glance in my direction.  “I could call Roberta and see if she’d prescribe something…”

“Absolutely not,” I said, appalled at her suggestion.  “No drugs.”

Aunt Franki released a heavy sigh as she rose to clutch my shoulders.  “Not drugs, honey, a mild sedative or something.”

I continued to shake my head.  “Not at all.  I’ll just…take a bath or something.”

I eased out of her grip and escaped to the basement to collect my pajamas before she could protest.  Of course I knew she wasn’t trying to get me addicted to any sort of drugs – I was pretty sure she was only worried that I’d suffer another breakdown.  And I should have assured her that I wasn’t feeling twitchy in the least.  I’d learned a valuable lesson and would most definitely let her know if I felt that heaviness, that anxiety building in my chest again.

Besides, I thought as I slowly climbed the stairs, I’d had my fair share of the drug scene last year.  Prescription meds were all right, I supposed, as long as they were taken as recommended, but I wanted no part of them.  Not now.

The bath had done an acceptable job of making me drowsy and I fi
nally retired after securing a promise from Franki to wake me should she hear anything at all.  I curled up in my bed, closing my eyes, seeing that man’s face again.

Ted Pinther.  I wondered about his life and what could possibly have spurred him to snatch a young girl and brutally murder her.  Had something horrible happened in his childhood?  Had he been molested or abused?  Was he married now?  With children of his own?

I shivered as I imagined him a father.  How could he look at his own children with the knowledge that he’d taken the life of a girl – ripped her from a loving family, tearing their world apart?

But perhaps he didn’t have a wife or children.  Maybe he was like those people who were featured on the special news documentaries – the type that profiles the lives of serial killers and digs into their pasts.  Maybe this guy, this Ted Pinther, maybe he was just sick.  Maybe he fantasized constantly about little girls and couldn’t control it.  Maybe he’d tried to stop himself in the past but the urge was too strong.

A shudder rocked my body so I yanked the blankets to my chin.  How were people like that able to exist?  Why wouldn’t they seek help – treatment?  Did they
like
that they were that way?  The one program I’d watched on child molesters featured a man who’d been deeply ashamed of what he’d done.  He’d never murdered his victims but he had ripped their worlds apart; shattered their innocence.

What had this man, this Ted Pinther, done to Robin Frieze?  Very few details had emerged and none of them grisly, but I knew they’d come – could feel it in my bones.  And he’d confessed that there had been others.

My shivering increased to trembling and I tightened the curl of my body to fight off the chill.

Camille.  Was this man responsible for my little sister’s disappearance?  Had he done unspeakable things to her?  Was she still alive?

Scooting up the headboard, I wrapped my arms around my legs, rocking back and forth in an effort at self-comfort.  Gruesome images swirled in my brain, all of them involving Robin and Camille, their faces frightened, their bodies broken.

I was beginning to regret my refusal of sleep aids.  Maybe it wouldn’t have been a bad idea.  The effects from my bath had worn off and insomnia lurked behind my eyes.  I’d never sleep, not until I knew if this man had anything to do with my sister.

I slipped out of bed and stumbled to my desk, flipping on the laptop.  I waited for the wireless to connect before doing a search on Ted Pinther.  Several links popped up – all of them about his arrest.

I ate up every bit of information like a famished lion to his prey.  Most of it was repetitive: Ted Pinther was a thirty-five year old freelance photographer who traveled the country, selling photographs to various magazines and books.  He’d never married, never had children
, and never held a steady job.  Nothing explained why he'd committed his horrible crime.

Frustrated and still not the least bit tired, I shut down the computer and crawled back into bed.  I stared at the dark ceiling, mentally counting ceiling tiles and sheep – whatever cleared my mind and bored me to sleep.

***

I managed school the next morning somehow.  Sleep had nearly eluded me but I’d finally managed to nod off about an hour before sunrise.  I paid dearly for my night of insomnia as I was sluggish and not able to focus much in class.

The only bright spot – if you could call it that – was that Fin had already heard the news and was outside of every one of my classes as soon as the bell rang.  When I asked how he’d managed it, he just smiled and took my hand, telling me he had his ways.  He was attentive to the point of near suffocation, but it didn’t irritate me like I thought it would.  On the contrary, I was grateful for his constant presence to keep me out of trouble.  My anxiety over waiting for news combined with my lack of sleep had roused the anger-demon - and it was ready to snap at the first person to look at me the wrong way.

The somber mood at our table during lunch suited me perfectly. Obviously, my friends knew what was going on but kept their views and comments to themselves, waiting for some sign from me.  I didn’t say much, just continued to nibble on the lasagna Fin had placed in front of me.  I normally enjoyed the school’s lasagna – it was surprisingly delicious – but I barely tasted it.  I only ate because it was something to do.

When I settled behind my desk during Study Hall, I rested my head on my arms, eager to block out the low buzz of the people around me.  My eyes were drooping and a tiny headache threatened to explode so I just wanted to prevent it at all costs.  Besides, Gina and her friends had been shooting curious glances at me all day – I didn’t need a confrontation.

My body had just started to unwind, relaxing into an almost ‘not there’ state, when th
e classroom telephone rang. The Study Hall monitor answered it, speaking softly into the receiver.  I’d jumped at the sound and my heart continued to pound while I strained to hear what was being said but was unable to hear much more than a murmur.  Finally, the monitor hung up the phone and scanned the class, his eyes briefly touching each person until they landed on me.  He pushed his chair back and stood to walk around the desk, his slow steps amplified by the stillness in the room.  My heart thudded louder as he drew closer to my desk.  My breath seized when he stopped in front of me, bending to whisper.

“Miss Hamilton, you’re wanted in the administration office,” he said, his eyes revealing nothing.

I couldn’t speak as my mouth suddenly dried up and a heavy weight fell upon my chest.  I gathered my things, my hands trembling wickedly, and stumbled to my feet.  I chanced a glance in Gina’s direction, mostly out of habit, and was surprised to see a spark of sympathy in her eyes.  That nearly broke me so I hurried out of the room before I collapsed into a pathetic, sobbing heap.

The walk to the office reminded me eerily of some old, black and white movie I’d once watched with Jared – one in which a convicted man took a long walk toward a door to a room that held his destiny: The electric chair.  My knees knocked with each step and when I reached my destination at last, I avoided peering through the glass to see what was awaiting me.  It was with a trembling hand that I twisted the knob and stepped inside the office.  I was unsurprised to find an equally stressed Aunt Franki waiting for me, wringing her hands.  Her red rimmed eyes and tear stained face caused my legs to give and I crumpled to my knees.  The secretary and p
rincipal rushed forth to help me to my feet as Aunt Franki took me in her arms and squeezed.

“No, no, no,” I said.  “No.”

“He confessed, honey,” she cried in my hair.  “He admitted to taking her.”

My back
pack slipped off my shoulder so I shook it to the floor as I wrenched out of Aunt Franki’s embrace to push my hair off my face.  My insides churned as my eyes darted around the room, catching the worried and anxious looks of the office staff.  The bell shrilled, startling me.  My panicked mind raced, wondering what to do and doing its best to ignore Aunt Franki’s words.

My head shook of its own accord as my fingers dug into my temples.  I was aware of the curious stares of my classmates as they passed the office on their way to escape school for another day.  But I could care less.  I didn’t give a damn what any of them thought of me.  I didn’t give a damn about anything anymore.  My heart shattered, the pieces spraying my insides.  There was nothing left in me.

“Perhaps you’d like to step into my office,” the principal suggested, touching the small of Aunt Franki’s back.  “It would give you some privacy and give the school a chance to clear.”

I didn’t hear Aunt Franki’s reply but figured she’d accepted as I was ge
ntly shuttled down the hall into a cluttered office.  I sank into a chair, my body numb and my head a mess.  I tried to cry, tried to summon the tears that had been building, but I couldn’t.  I resigned myself to just sitting – it was all I could do.

The adults spoke in soft tones, discussing the classes I’d miss and how I’d be able to make it up in order to graduate.  But again, I didn’t care.  I didn’t care if I ever finished school.  I didn’t care if I wound up in some minimum wage job flipping burgers for the rest of my life.  How could I live, after all, when my little sister was gone and it was entirely my fault?

A commotion outside the door stirred my interest but I didn’t have the energy to investigate or to even ask what was happening.  The secretary peeked inside the door and told the principal that a couple of my ‘little friends’ were in the reception area asking to see me.  I wondered vaguely how they’d found out where I was.

“Can you please tell them that Rena will call them later?” Aunt Franki asked.  The secretary obviously agreed because I heard the door shut.  I didn’t look up to confirm.

I zoned out, blocking everything from my mind, until Aunt Franki shook me gently and declared it time to go home.  I shuffled behind her, climbing into her car, listening apathetically as she described our plans.

“And maybe Fin and Damon could get your car and bring it home,” she was saying.  I just nodded.

When I got into the house, I fell into the nearest chair while Aunt Franki manned the phone, making calls and talking in a low voice.  She hadn’t turned off the television when she’d come to fetch me from school and the same news channel was still on, this time flashing pictures of Camille and two other little girls that I didn’t recognize.  The pain struck again, piercing the organs it had not yet destroyed. I brought my knees to my chest to keep myself together.

“Honey,” Aunt Franki said in a watery voice as she dropped in front of me.  She patted my hand.  “I’m going to take you home.  Your family wants you there.”

I nodded but didn’t move.

“I’ve talked to Roberta and she will meet us there later, as soon as she’s able to get away.”

Roberta.  Yes, good.  Maybe she could help my mother.  My mother was going to need help.

“Would you like to call your friends or would you rather I did?”