Authors: Koethi Zan
Bracing myself, I took a deep breath and started the engine.
As I sat there, hesitating, two latex-clad men exited the club, one calling the other “master” as he followed dutifully behind on his leash. I waited for them to settle into their sedan, the master driving, the submissive one slumping in the backseat; then I carefully maneuvered my car behind theirs toward the exit. The van was ahead of us both as we pulled out onto the road. I pursued them at a safe distance, four car lengths behind.
Baby steps, I thought to myself. Right now I’m just driving in a car on a public road. The doors are locked. My tank is three-quarters full. I have a cell phone and good reception. My bag contains both
mace and pepper spray. I can turn around and go back to the hotel at any moment. I am in control.
About ten miles down the road, the other car turned off. There was an SUV behind me. I let it pass, putting it between the van and my car. With one hand on the wheel, I groped around in my bag for my notebook and pen. Giving up on that after a couple of seconds, I took my phone from the inside pocket of the leather vest and dialed all but the last digit of my home number in New York, peering out into the darkness ahead. I was too far away to read the license plate number, so I threw my phone toward the seat beside me. I heard it miss and clatter to the floorboard.
“Damn,” I muttered. After another twenty minutes or so, the van turned left onto a dirt road that was almost entirely hidden by trees. I drove past it about a hundred feet, turned off my lights, and made an illegal U-turn.
I followed the van slowly up a hill, as I reached down to the floorboard for my phone. Shit. The battery had fallen out when it hit the floor. I fumbled around in the dark, searching for it futilely.
I stopped the car halfway up that drive, feeling the old familiar dizziness rising up in my head. Cycling through every cognitive therapy trick in the book, I visualized the fear, imagining it as a ball that was separate and distinct from me.
It wasn’t working. I knew that, in fact, right now, my anxiety was very real and entirely justified. Eventually I calmed myself just enough to keep from hyperventilating, but my intestines were squeezing up on me. I dug my pepper spray and mace out of my bag, placing both canisters carefully on the seat beside me. I looked at the photo of Jennifer I’d fixed to the dashboard, gathering what strength I could from it. I had to keep going.
I inched the car a little farther down the road, until I got to a clearing in the woods. I was thanking my lucky stars that the rental car was dark gray. I didn’t think I could be seen, but I was close
enough to make out in the distance, probably fifty yards from me, a small warehouse with one garage door and a small windowless entrance to the right of it. A single floodlight covered the front yard of the building.
As a precaution, I slowly turned the car around, so I could drive out facing forward. I sat perfectly still, my breathing faster than normal. I turned off the engine and twisted myself in my seat so I could see. After that I didn’t move. Not even to find my phone.
I could just make out Noah Philben’s outline as he walked over to the back of the warehouse and picked up what looked like a large tarp. The other man followed him, and together they covered the van, then turned to go back in. Suddenly Noah paused, walked over to the side of the building, and flipped a switch, killing the floodlights.
I kept as still as possible, holding my breath, as though that would make a difference. I held my keys in the ignition, ready to turn them if he so much as took a step forward. I waited, the seconds feeling like hours.
Go back inside
, I tried to will him. Finally, after an excruciating minute or two, he turned around and trudged back into the warehouse.
I wanted to know what was in that van. Why was there a tarp? What could they be doing in that warehouse? Was this somehow related to his cult?
All I knew about religious cults was taken from headlines. Maybe they were doing something mystical. Or planning a mass suicide. Maybe it was a wedding with plural wives and child brides. Or maybe that’s where they kept the cache of weapons they’d need in case the feds invaded. Whatever it was, it was my only connection to Sylvia, and I knew I needed to understand what was going on to make any progress.
I waited for at least half an hour, not moving, barely breathing. I rolled down my window a few inches to let in the cool night air.
I briefly considered getting out of the car to get a better look, to see what was under that tarp, but the very thought of it made me sick. I was stuck here for now.
Finally, I decided nothing more seemed to be happening. Maybe they were staying the night. My heart was heavy as I finally started the engine, knowing it was pointless to wait here any longer and definitely too dangerous.
As I slowly drove back down the driveway, my hands were shaking so hard I could barely grip the wheel. Only when I had put several miles between me and that warehouse did I start breathing regularly again. But as I continued along, the back roads suddenly seemed like a maze, a labyrinth specifically designed to trap me.
I pushed several buttons on the GPS to try to get the route back to the club, but it only told me it was “recalculating.” Cursing, I turned it off.
It seemed hours before I happened upon the main road, and by then there was no way I was going anywhere except straight back to the hotel. Adele would have to wait until tomorrow for an explanation.
CHAPTER 17
When I was safe in my hotel room, I decided the time had come to call in Agent Jim McCordy. This search had gotten too dangerous for me; they needed someone without post-traumatic stress disorder to go following vans out of S&M clubs.
Even so, I was feeling proud of myself. A year ago, a month ago even, I would have had to page Dr. Simmons on an emergency basis if I had even thought about something that frightening. Now I felt a little bit stronger, a little more determined, each day out of my apartment. That felt good. And I knew I was on to something here. It was too much of a coincidence that Noah Philben would be there at Jack Derber’s old haunt. “What are the odds?” as Jennifer would have said.
It was four a.m., which meant seven a.m. Eastern time. Late enough to call. I dialed Jim’s number. As usual, he answered immediately.
“Sarah? Where are you? Dr. Simmons said you’d canceled another appointment.”
“You might say that. Jim, look, I need your help. I think I have figured out a strange connection. It might not mean anything, but—”
“Connection? Sarah, what are you doing? Right now you should just be meeting with Dr. Simmons regularly to prepare yourself to face Jack at the parole hearing. That is how you can best help to keep him in prison.”
“You’re right. Theoretically. But I think I’m on to something.”
I took a deep breath.
“Jim, I’m in Oregon.” But before he could speak, I hurried on. “Let’s talk about that later. More important—Noah Philben. What do you know about him?”
“Sarah, I—”
“I know, Jim. I know what you’re going to say. Please. Noah Philben?”
He sighed.
“The pastor?” He paused, perhaps deciding whether to indulge me, but giving in at last. “I did a preliminary workup on him when Jack Derber married Sylvia. No record. Totally clean. Religious zealot who has been running that church since his early twenties. Sketchy operation, and I’ve got the tax guys monitoring it, but no other suspicious activity.”
“Really? Well, here’s the thing, Jim. I went to this S&M club where—”
“You did what?” He was incredulous.
“Just hear me out. I’ll explain another time. I went to this club where Jack used to go, and I … for various reasons I was out back, getting some air …”
“I can only imagine.”
“And I saw a van and there seemed to be some sort of … transaction … going on, and it was Noah Philben.”
“Sarah, there is nothing illegal about going to an S&M club, and I think if history proves anything, it’s that it’s not unprecedented for the leaders of small religious organizations to get mixed up in that sort of thing. It’s a trope of the genre, as Tracy might say.” He laughed at his own joke.
“Tracy? Has she been talking to you about this?”
“She called me yesterday. She thinks you are going a little too far. That you believe you can find Jennifer’s body.”
“Don’t talk to her about me. Please. She is always going to hate me, and I don’t want her convincing you I’m crazy. I’m not crazy. Okay, well, I might be a little crazy, but not about this. I am approaching this in the most methodical way humanly possible.”
“But of course you are, Sarah. As is your way. But you aren’t actually a detective, after all, remember? Listen, I know you think we failed you, but we interviewed every person even remotely connected with Jack Derber, and—”
“Did you talk to Piker and Raven?”
“Who?”
“I don’t know their real names, but they go to this club. Did you even go to the club?”
“What club?”
“Exactly. You didn’t. It’s called The Vault. And I think I have a whole new angle on Jack Derber. I think it should be explored. Can you look into Noah Philben again?”
There was silence on the line, and then finally, “I’ll see what I can do.” He sounded sincere.
Since I was getting somewhere, I thought I’d push it even further.
“Also, Sylvia is missing.”
“Tracy mentioned that. But a full mailbox is hardly enough
evidence to file a missing person report. Sounds like she’s on vacation. Like you.”
“If that’s the case, maybe I’d better wait it out here in Oregon until her return,” I countered.
“Listen, Sarah, I’ll be frank. This search of yours doesn’t worry me any less than your reaction to the last letter. I don’t want you putting yourself in harm’s way, physically or mentally. Tracy said you’d gone to Oregon, but neither of us expected you to take it this far. What you’re doing is dangerous. Please come back, stay safe.”
It sounded like sage advice. Except that it would mean giving up entirely.
CHAPTER 18
I hung up from my call with Jim feeling dispirited. Maybe he was right. Sylvia was probably visiting her parents. Noah Philben was probably involved in a tax evasion scam and sex scandal all rolled into one, but that wasn’t going to help me find Jennifer’s body. Maybe I was wasting my time. Time I should be spending on that victim impact statement.
I checked my plane ticket, thinking maybe I should just get out of here and leave the past behind once and for all. But my flight didn’t take off until the following evening. I shrugged and told myself I might as well keep going until then. But if something concrete didn’t materialize soon, I would be forced to admit defeat.
Early the next morning, I drove back out to campus to find Adele. She had left a note that she was in the library. I found her at a large wooden table in the back stacks of the third floor. The ceilings
were high, and dust from the books penetrated the air. Libraries still made me nervous.
Surrounded by piles of books and papers, Adele was typing furiously on her laptop. She didn’t look up until I was standing right beside her. I whispered her name, and she jumped slightly, slamming her computer shut.
Some loose pieces of paper covered with scrawled notes drifted to the floor. She leaned down quickly and picked them up before even looking over at me. As she put them back in order and tucked them neatly into a notebook, she turned to me calmly. I noticed that her right hand rested protectively on a small stack of thick books.
“You startled me.” She said it in a neutral voice, but her eyes clearly expressed displeasure.
I mumbled an apology as I glanced surreptitiously at the books on the table. Most of them had scientific-sounding names, but one very simple title caught my eye before Adele could put anything on top of it:
Coercive Persuasion
. When she noticed me studying the spines, without looking, she turned them to face the back of the room. Only then did she seem to relax, motioning for me to take the seat next to her.
“Not the best place to chat.” She spoke quietly but not in a whisper, as though the library’s rules didn’t quite apply to her. “But what happened to you last night? I was worried.”
“You know, I just needed some air. That place was a little overwhelming.” I tried, unsuccessfully, to force out a laugh.
“Sounds like a panic attack. Do you take anything?”
The look in her eyes was familiar though I hadn’t seen it in a while: curiosity and professional interest, masked as actual concern.
That first year out of the cellar I had tried to be helpful to the psychological community while they ostensibly tried to be helpful
to me. It had been one long blur of sessions, meetings, and examinations. I knew this look. It was the look of someone piecing together her peer-reviewed article in her head. Here I was again, someone’s thesis. And I didn’t like it one bit.
“I’m fine. No need to worry. Thanks for taking me there, actually. It was tough, but I think it gave me some good … insights.”
“You really shouldn’t be driving if you feel an attack coming on. I could have given you a ride.”
She paused, looking at me with that same penetrating gaze I recognized from Dr. Simmons. Studied, practiced, manipulative. I knew what it signaled. She was about to go in for the kill.
“What are you really doing, Sarah? You don’t actually think you are going to find a body, do you? Are you exploring your past? Trying to make sense of what happened to you?”
Her tone was patronizing, and I felt an all-too-familiar surge of resistance building up inside me. I imagined it as a wall forming between us, rising up brick by brick. That’s what years of cognitive therapy gets you. There we were in battle, swords drawn, in some centuries-old feud of good versus evil. Subject versus object.
She shifted a bit, leaning forward. She must have thought I wouldn’t be able to detect the eagerness in her face. I wanted to see where she was taking this, though, so I decided to play along.
“Look,” she began, “I hope this doesn’t sound strange, but I’ve been thinking about something. I wonder if, as long as you are here anyway, you wouldn’t mind participating in a study. It really wouldn’t take much of your time. It wouldn’t interrupt your search. Just a few interview sessions. Your case is unusual, of course, and there has never been much of a sample set for people who have survived your type of ordeal. A few years ago I worked on the design for a victimological study, and—”