Immoral (7 page)

Stride studied each of the girls in the photographs closely but did not recognize Rachel—or Kerry—in any of them. He was vaguely disappointed.

Stride was about to rap his knuckles on the door when he heard faint noises from inside. Changing his mind, and wondering if the door was locked, he simply twisted the doorknob and pushed. The door fell inward, then thudded against a diagonal wall, leaving only a three-foot opening through which to squeeze into the office.

Stride’s eyes painted the scene before the two people in the room could react. A teenager with a plump baby face and stringy blonde hair lay, eyes closed, in a ratty blue recliner that barely fit into the office. Nancy Carver stood behind the chair. Her spread fingertips massaged the girl’s cheeks and forehead. Carver’s eyes, too, were closed behind her glasses. As the door banged into the wall, their eyes flew open. Carver’s hands flew away from the girl’s skin as if it were on fire.

The girl in the chair didn’t look at Stride but instead craned her neck and looked nervously back at Carver. Carver in turn stared at Stride with barely controlled fury.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, barging in here like that?” she demanded.

Stride adopted his most pleasant, apologetic demeanor. “I’m so sorry. I needed to talk to you, and I didn’t realize you had someone with you.”

The girl struggled to right the recliner and then to stand up. She didn’t make eye contact with Stride. “I should get to class. Thanks a lot, Nancy.”

Carver replied in a softer voice. “Sure, Sarah. I’ll be back on Thursday.”

Sarah grabbed a stack of books from Nancy Carver’s desk. She clutched them to her chest and wedged uncomfortably past Stride. The girl wasted no time disappearing down the corridor.

Stride closed the door behind him. Carver remained frozen behind the old recliner, studying him as if he were an insect. Her glasses made her fierce brown eyes look larger than life. She was even smaller than the photographs made her look, but with a muscular physique.

“What do you want?” she asked.

“My name is Jonathan Stride,” he began, but she cut him off with an impatient wave of her hand.

“Yes, yes, I know who you are. You’re with the police, and you’re investigating Rachel’s disappearance, and you’re taking up my time.” She returned to her desk and sat down in a wooden Shaker chair. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

Stride looked around the tiny office. Carver’s desk was standard school district issue, white laminate on aluminum legs. It was piled with hardcover books, most with obscure psychological titles, and manila folders overflowing with papers. The phone was stuck all over with little reminder notes. The chair, desk, and recliner were the only pieces of furniture in the office. The one item on the wall was a cork bulletin board, as crowded as her office door, with more articles and photographs.

Stride sat leisurely in the recliner and made himself comfortable. He extracted a notebook from his inside coat pocket, searched a few other pockets for a pen, then settled against the cushy backrest with a sigh. He flipped the notebook backward a few pages, glancing at the scribblings there and making an annoying clicking noise with his tongue. Finally, he looked up at Nancy Carver, who sat in her chair with all the patience of a ticking bomb.

“My partner tells me that I should get therapy,” Stride said pleasantly. “Do all patients get the little face massage thing?”

Carver’s face was etched in stone. “Sarah is not a patient.”

“No? Too bad. I heard you were a doctor, but maybe I was wrong. Are you a massage therapist?”

“I have both a master’s and a Ph.D. in psychology, Detective. I am a tenured professor at the University of Minnesota. But here, with these girls, I’m just Nancy.”

“That’s nice. So what was this with Sarah—a slumber party?”

“No,” she said. “Not that it is any of your business, but Sarah has trouble sleeping. I was showing her relaxation techniques. That’s all.”

Stride nodded. “Relaxation is good. My partner tells me I should try that, too.”

“Perhaps your partner should tell you to get to the point faster, Detective. Your little game is transparent and tedious, so why not just ask your questions and let me get back to my work?” For the first time, Nancy Carver smiled, without a trace of warmth.

Stride smiled back. “Game?”

“Game. See who can outshrink the other. Remember, I make a living at it. So let’s be honest, shall we, Detective? In addition to whatever investigative conclusions you’ve jumped to, you’ve also already checked me out as a piece of meat. You’ve concluded that I’m not attractive enough to constitute a major loss to the heterosexual community. Nonetheless, you’ve noted that I have an athletic body, and based on my feisty attitude, you’ve figured that if you ever could get me into bed, I’d probably give you a pretty good ride. All of which leads you to fantasize about me making love to other women—and to wonder whether I’m having sex with any of the teenagers here. And you’re hoping if you act flip and challenge my insecurities, you’ll get me to spill some deep dark secret to you.”

“That’s amazing,” Stride said. “Now tell me who’s going to win the World Series.”

Carver allowed herself another tight smile. “I’m right, am I not?”

“Well, since you brought it up, are you having sex with any of the teenagers here?”

“I do not have sex with underage persons, Detective,” Carver said slowly, emphasizing each word.

“That’s a good answer. It’s not what I asked, but a good answer. I like the photographs on your door. You seem to take students on a lot of field trips.”

“I call them feminist learning retreats.”

“Do underage persons attend any of these retreats?”

“Of course. With parental permission.”

“I was wondering whether Rachel ever accompanied you on one of these retreats.”

“No, she didn’t,” Carver said.

“How about Kerry McGrath?”

“No, I never met Kerry. Are you suggesting I am in some way involved in their disappearances?”

Stride shook his head. “Not at all. I’m just looking for connections.”

“And why not start with a lesbian activist, right?”

“It’s amazing how you can read my mind. Did you ever counsel either of these girls?”

“I don’t counsel people here, Detective.”

“Well, since you’ve made it clear that you’re not the school’s massage therapist, what exactly is it you do if you’re not a counselor?”

“I’m a mentor. Or simply a friend. There’s no formal professional relationship involved.”

“That’s strange, isn’t it?” Stride asked. “I mean, you have both a master’s and a Ph.D. in psychology, and you’re a tenured professor at the University of Minnesota, and I see a lot of books with ‘ology’ in the title on your desk.”

“It’s not strange at all, Detective. In fact, I could say that you’re responsible for my being here.”

“Me? How’s that?”

Carver leaned forward on her desk, her hands neatly folded together, her huge brown eyes boring into him again. “Well, since you never did find Kerry McGrath, you left a lot of female students traumatized around this school.”

Stride winced. “I’m not following you.”

“Let me spell it out. After that girl disappeared last August, the school began to have a lot of trouble with the women here. Several of them were skipping classes, bursting into tears, engaging in self-destructive behavior. I offered my services as a volunteer counselor—not in a professional sense but as someone who could relate to them and talk to them about their fears. It’s a measure of how worried the administration was that they didn’t quibble about my politics or sexual preference but welcomed me with open arms. And I found I enjoyed working with the girls. So I made it into a permanent stint, two afternoons a week, and I’ve taken small groups on several retreats, too. I’m not their therapist, although my professional experience is certainly helpful. Mostly, I’m someone these women can talk to.”

“Did you have a chance to become friends with Rachel?”

He watched her face, expecting a reaction. There was nothing, not a flinch, no attempt to hide anything, only the same level stare.

“I knew her,” she said, still betraying nothing.

“How well?”

“We met occasionally. She was not one of my regular visitors. And as I mentioned, she never joined us on any of the retreats.”

“Why did she come to see you?”

Carver paused. She stared calmly at Stride. “I’m not at liberty to say,” she said finally.

“Why not?” Stride asked, annoyed. “You were quite adamant that these were not professional relationships, so privilege doesn’t apply, does it?”

“Privilege would depend on how Rachel perceived the relationship and whether she considered me a therapist. But regardless, she told me certain things only with the condition that they remain strictly confidential between the two of us. I was to tell no one at all. And if I get a reputation as someone who betrays confidences, Detective, I can’t be successful at anything I do in this field.”

“But surely the situation is different now. The girl has disappeared. If something she said can help us find her, then you owe it to Rachel to tell us.”

Carver shook her head. “I’m afraid that’s not true at all.”

“Dr. Carver, this girl could be in serious danger,” Stride insisted.

“Detective, I know nothing whatsoever that could help you find her. Believe me.”

“You were telling people at school today that you thought we would never find Rachel. Why? What makes you think that?”

“You didn’t find Kerry,” Carver replied.

“Do you have reason to think the two cases are related?”

“No, I didn’t mean to imply that at all. I have no reason to think so.”

“And yet you seem certain we won’t find Rachel,” Stride repeated.

“I’m not certain that she would want to be found,” Carver said.

Stride’s eyes narrowed. He pushed himself out of the recliner and leaned over the desk, with both hands gripping the edge. He towered over Carver, and he wanted her to feel every inch of his presence. “If you have information, Dr. Carver, I want to know what it is. Don’t make me get a warrant for your arrest.”

Carver didn’t quaver. She met his eyes and glared at him. “Go ahead, Detective. You can’t arrest me for speculations, and you can’t make me tell you what I don’t know. I told you before, and I’ll tell you again. I don’t know where Rachel is. I don’t know what happened to her. I have no information that would help you find her.”

“But you think she’s alive,” Stride said. “You think she left voluntarily.”

“Here’s what I think, Detective. In six months, Rachel Deese will be eighteen years old. At that point, even if you find her, you won’t be able to bring her back.”

Stride shook his head. “You’re not helping her by staying silent. If she ran away—if she had reason to run away—I need to know it. Look, I’ve met her mother. I know what a battle royal it was between them all the time. But if she’s on her own, alone, she could get into serious trouble. Do I have to tell you what it’s like for most teenage runaways? How many end up homeless? How many get into prostitution?”

For a moment, he thought he might win. He saw an instant of weakness in Carver’s eyes. She knew he was telling the truth. Then, like a mask, the steel came back down over her eyes.

“I’m sorry, Detective. I don’t know anything that can help you. Whatever I told people, it’s just my personal opinion.”

“And that is?” Stride asked.

Carver shrugged. “Just like I said. You’ll never find her.”

Heather Hubble turned right off Highway 53 and onto a nondescript dirt road about ten miles northwest of Duluth. Her car rocked and bounced on the rutted surface. On the seat beside her, Lissa, her six-year-old daughter, rocked along with the car.

It was late Thursday afternoon. She wanted to take advantage of the waning light and the lengthening shadows for her photographs of the ruined barn. She had been waiting until the fall colors surrounding her were well past prime. The bright red leaves had turned to rust. The yellows were pale and greenish. Many of the leaves had already fallen and would be littering the field around the barn. That was perfect. The barn, too, was in the advanced stages of decay. The images in her photographs would reinforce each other.

“I like this road, Mommy,” Lissa said, jumping up and down in her seat. “It’s bouncy and it’s pretty.”

Lissa pushed her nose against the window, staring into the trees. There was a steady rain of dried leaves floating in the air.

“How much farther?” Lissa asked impatiently.

“It’s not far now,” Heather said.

They rounded a bend, and the barn loomed out of the field on the left side. It was beautiful and romantic in Heather’s eyes; in reality it was a wreck, long since abandoned. Heather didn’t imagine it would last another season, although she had thought that for several years. She assumed the weight of this year’s snow would cave in the rest of the roof, which had already fallen through in several places, leaving jagged holes. The barn’s red paint had faded, chipped, and peeled away. The windows had been broken in by teenagers throwing rocks. The entire frame seemed to list inward, the walls bowed and unsteady. She could probably come back in February and the barn would be no more than a snow-covered pile of splintered beams.

She pulled into the grassy, overgrown driveway, which wasn’t a real driveway at all but had been worn down by the many visitors to the barn over the years. She parked and got out, and Lissa scrambled out, too.

“I don’t think I’ve been to this place before, have I, Mommy?” Lissa asked.

“No, I don’t think so. I think you’ve always been in school when I’ve come here.”

“It’s not in very good shape, is it?”

Heather laughed. “No, it’s not.”

“Can I look around?”

“Sure. But don’t go inside the barn. It’s not safe.”

“It looks like the kind of place that could be haunted,” Lissa said. “What do you think?”

“It might be,” Heather told her.

“How do you know about this place?” Lissa asked.