Authors: Koethi Zan
It took all of three-tenths of a second for Google to tell me Sylvia’s
full name and the town where she lived. The benefit of having a famous archenemy was that he couldn’t get married without the world knowing the details.
Sylvia Dunham, Keeler, Oregon
. She lived not too far from the prison, convenient for her but unfortunate for me, because I believed I would be able to feel his presence through reinforced concrete and steel bars as easily as I had through the cellar door.
I ran a Google Earth search on the penitentiary and stared for a moment at the tiny yard, a smudge of tan on the screen, where surely he must walk every day. I could just make out the indistinct image of the guard tower, and even the minuscule line marking the boundaries of the prison with what must be razor wire. I shut down the Web page with a shudder. I didn’t want to push my psychological limits too soon.
I hadn’t even been back to the state since my escape, and I had solemnly vowed never to return. But Jack’s letter made me realize what the price of my inaction might be. Even the remotest possibility of his release stirred up emotions I’d been fighting back for years and forced me to confront what I knew I finally needed to do, no matter how terrifying.
At Jack’s trial, the prosecutors had “been pragmatic,” they’d “done what they could.” And their strategies had worked to an extent; he was in jail, after all. But that didn’t change the fact that Jennifer’s story had been left open-ended, a case that might never be closed. Over the years I’d come to accept it somewhat, thinking there was nothing I could do. But Jack’s letter made me believe that Sylvia might be the key to it all, that she might know something concrete. Now duty was calling me, and for the first time in ten years, I felt I could answer it. Maybe it was all that therapy finally working after all. Or maybe somehow I knew this mission
was
the therapy.
Before my courage could fail me, I pulled up another Web site
and booked my flight, a room in the nicest hotel in the area, and, pausing, a rental car, knowing that as much as I hated to drive, there was zero chance I could get into a cab. I booked under Caroline Morrow, my “real” name now. My practical side was taking over. I started making lists.
This would be the first trip I’d taken in five years, since visiting my parents back in Ohio, and, frankly that hadn’t gone very well. Despite the ensuing three-hour layover in Atlanta, I had booked a flight that put me on a Boeing 767 because it had the lowest mechanical failure rate in the fleet. Even with that security, I’d had a full-blown panic attack as I’d boarded. The airline crew had forced me to deplane, thereby delaying the flight and raising the ire of a number of vocal passengers, who would have, I’m sure, been much more understanding if they’d known my real name and remembered me from the newsstands. I’d had to wait six more hours at the airport before the paramedics were convinced I could keep it together enough to get on a later flight.
This time my rigid aircraft requirements put my detour through Phoenix, and the circuitous route would take me a full twelve hours, six hours longer than was strictly necessary for efficiency’s sake, but nevertheless utterly required for my mental condition.
I packed light but well. The next day, as I clicked my suitcase shut, I felt, once again, fully prepared. Ready. Sure of my mission. And then, as had happened last time, right before walking out the door, I felt that old familiar feeling—thoughts spinning, chest tightening. I fought it back, but as I struggled for breath, I made my way back to my bedroom, over to the white-painted bureau.
I pulled out the bottom drawer, the one I never looked in anymore, and dragged out a battered blue photo album. It fell open naturally to a page in the center, and in the upper-right-hand corner, under the peeling laminate, there she was, Jennifer, at thirteen.
Above her unconvincing smile, her eyes looked sad, as they always
had in the years after the accident. She looked serious, as if she were thinking hard. I was standing next to her, leaning over, caught there with my mouth open, talking to her animatedly. She was lost in her own world, and I hadn’t even noticed.
I studied the picture of myself at that age. Despite our fears, I looked so confident, happy even. Now, sitting safely in my room, if I leaned back on the rug, I could see myself at thirty-one in the mirror over the bureau. My sharp, angular features had been softened somewhat by age, but my dark brown hair was the same shoulder-length no-muss-no-fuss bob I’d had since high school. My brown eyes looked nearly black against my pale skin that had only the pink flush of panic to infuse it with life. I looked distraught, even when I forced a smile back at myself. No wonder they deliver up the shrink to my door, I thought, looking at the frightened creature staring back at me.
Slowly I stood up, and as I started to replace the album, I paused and pulled out that one photo of the two of us. I tucked it into my wallet and picked up my bag. Then I pushed the album far to the back, carefully closed the drawer, and smoothed my clothes. Jim was right. I did need some fresh air. I collected my things, double-checked my flight time and number, and put into my bag the sandwich I had wrapped earlier. I could do this.
It was only as I triple-locked my apartment door from the outside, with my bright red suitcase at my feet, that I remembered I hadn’t called Dr. Simmons. Well, I shrugged, McCordy will tell her, and then we can talk about my avoidance strategies for three or four sessions. Nothing like a new narrative to keep the relationship alive.
CHAPTER 6
I had never lost the trick of closing my eyes to shut out reality, and I spent most of my flight to Oregon with my cheek pressed against my inflatable pillow. The stewardess supposed I was sleeping, so other than the routine seat belt checks, she had left me alone. I had felt the anxiety rising up in my throat as the plane took off, but knowing I didn’t have time to waste with airport medics, I swallowed it back.
In truth, though, I didn’t sleep at all. My heart was beating faster than ever. The sights and sounds of travel were overloading my brain, which hadn’t taken in this much visual and aural information at once in five years. But it was more than that. My mind was racing as I was hatching my plan.
It would be a lot for me to meet with Sylvia, and I wondered if I was crazy to do this without Jim. But the FBI had spoken to Sylvia
before and had not been able to break through to her. Now Jack had made it very clear in his letter that she was his confidante. That she knew all the details of his past. I hoped coming face to face with his victim would make her realize whom she had really married, and that I could persuade her to reveal something she might not tell anyone else.
I was staying in Portland, even though Keeler, where she lived, was about forty miles outside the city. It was a little inconvenient, but her town had only motels, and a door directly onto the outside world was a nonstarter. I had never been comfortable driving, even when I’d been in practice. But I was relieved to find that once I got behind the wheel, the habit came back to me, though every second put me on edge.
I checked into the hotel without incident but also without grace. Unused to eye contact, I mostly stared down at my credit card, my hands, my suitcase. I hated the sound of the words “Caroline Morrow” as I choked them out. Ten years of it, and it still didn’t ring true to my ears. And it had never seemed fair that he had been able to rob me of my identity in such a profound way.
Once in my room, I locked both locks, which I couldn’t help noticing were made by a cheap manufacturer. I berated myself out loud for being such a freak. Nevertheless, my first move was to find the hotel guide and memorize the locations of all emergency exits. I studied the map on the back of the door and picked up the phone handset to check for a dial tone. I took out my cell phone to charge it, even though it was nearly at full power. You could never be too careful.
I had thought a lot about what I would say to Sylvia, and I ran over it all in my head again as I unpacked my clothes and laid them out on the bed to make sure, once more, that I hadn’t forgotten anything. Of course I hadn’t, so I showered quickly and set out on my journey. I wanted to make an initial run at it today and get back to the hotel before dark.
I found Sylvia’s house without any trouble. A small, nondescript, brick ranch house in a quiet residential area. At first glance, it looked deserted. There were heavy curtains on the windows, all closed.
I pulled into the empty driveway and quickly surveyed the premises. The garage doors in front of me looked as if they were sealed shut. I peered into their windows and saw that the space was neat as a pin. No car there, either. Along one wall, a wide assortment of household tools hung from a row of evenly spaced nails, their outlines traced carefully in marker. A bike in the corner had an obvious flat.
All this way, and she wasn’t home.
I walked around to the front door and rang the bell, just in case. I tried three times before I was convinced no one was there. I went back to the mailbox and, out of the corner of my eye, checked for signs of interfering neighbors before I opened it up. It was jammed full. I hesitated for only a second before pulling out a few pieces of mail. Already here I was, day one of this journey, breaking federal law. But at least I could tell I had the right place.
The mailbox contained mostly bills and advertising flyers. I reached underneath the pile and checked the postmark of the phone bill on the very bottom. It was dated three weeks ago. Strange that she hadn’t had the post office hold her mail if she had expected to be gone so long. But then, maybe I was the only one who planned ahead like that.
After flipping through the stack to make sure there was nothing from the penitentiary, I shoved it all back in and returned to my car, unsure of my next steps. I sat there for a few minutes, thinking. Since I’d made this trip to Keeler, I might as well explore every avenue, so I decided to stop off at the coffee shop I had passed on my way here. This was a small town—maybe they knew her.
It was a quaint silver train car diner, bright and welcoming inside,
right on the little town green. I chose the counter instead of one of the empty booths and ordered a coffee, trying my best to look friendly. I forced a smile.
I could see my face reflected in the mirror behind the counter. My eyes were bloodshot from the flight, my hair disheveled. Yep, total freak, I thought. I stopped smiling. When the waitress came over to refill my cup, I almost lunged across the bar at her. Awkwardness personified. I was clearly out of practice when it came to human contact.
“Do you know Sylvia Dunham, by any chance?” I asked in my best casual voice, which couldn’t have sounded less so. I was cursing my ineptitude inside, but the waitress didn’t even look up from pouring.
“Sure, I know her.” Her cool response made me realize there might be a lot of crime tourists who came in here curious about Sylvia Dunham. She had to be famous in this town. And there were people weirder than I was, I knew. Voyeuristic types who planned their vacations around crime scene destinations. I had to come up with something to distinguish myself from that particular brand of crazy. Yet I hadn’t planned to do anything more than confront Sylvia on this trip. I hadn’t exactly prepared for snooping this way, and I certainly wasn’t ready to announce to the world who I really was, after all these years.
“I’m … I’m writing a book,” I stuttered.
“Yep.” She still didn’t look up as she wiped away a tiny drop of coffee I’d spilled earlier. I realized my mistake. I probably wasn’t the only person trying to write a book on it either. I knew I was going to have to come up with something a little smoother, if I was going to do this for real.
Finally, she paused and glanced up at me.
“Look, some people like the extra business we get from tourists poking around here about this lady. And some people don’t. I have to say I don’t. I don’t want this guy coming to live here when he gets out. Don’t want anything to do with it. Now my husband, he’s
of a different opinion. He doesn’t have much else going on. I’m sure he’d talk your ear off about this subject.” She sighed. “He’ll be here at five to pick me up, if you want to ask him about it.”
I made a quick calculation. If I stayed until five, and talked to him for no more than fifteen minutes, I could still make it back to the hotel before it was fully dark. It was only four-fifteen now, though, so I’d need something to do until then. I thanked the waitress, paid, and told her I’d be back.
To pass the time, I walked around the neat town square, admiring its fresh-cut green lawn and the white-painted benches set out around the perimeter. I stopped in front of the prim white church on the corner. Maybe this was the one. Her church. I walked in and found it empty except for a woman vacuuming in front of the altar, her graying hair pulled up in a wispy, messy bun, her glasses chain swaying with her swift, thorough movements. I waved to her uncertainly, and she immediately switched off the vacuum, wiped her hands on her small apron, and walked briskly over to me.
“Can I help you?” she said, in what I thought was a not-very-churchlike manner. What if I were a little lost lamb looking for redemption? I cleared my throat, not sure what I could say to make me seem like I wasn’t the interloper I was.
“Yes, I—my name is Caroline Morrow, and I’m trying to track down an old friend of mine who lives around here.” I was fumbling around for the right words. Rambling, I knew. She stood still, waiting for me to spit it out.
“Sylvia Dunham.” I finally said it, and before the words were fully out of my mouth, I saw a shadow fall across her face. She knew the name. Everyone here must know the name. I went on.
“She doesn’t appear to be home, and I know she is a devout person, so I wondered if by chance someone here might know her. Know where to find her.”
She looked at me, coldly I thought, and shook her head.
“Does that mean Sylvia Dunham is not a member of this congregation?” I tried again.
She shuddered slightly, then seemed to remember church doctrine and forced a smile.