Never Knowing (12 page)

The earrings were in a plastic bag on the counter beside Billy. So was the box.

Evidence.

Billy got me a glass from the dish tray and ran me some water. As he handed it to me I said, “Thanks.”

He nodded and crossed his arms across his chest and leaned back against the counter. Sandy’s phone rang again and she picked it up.

“What?” Her face flushed as she said into the phone, “That’s not fucking good enough.” She frowned as she listened, running her hand through her hair until it was sticking up.

With my arms wrapped around my body, I leaned against the counter near Billy.

“I can’t believe this is happening.”

Billy said, “It’s a lot to take in.”

“Ya think?”

Sandy flashed us a look, then stalked off to the living room.

Billy lowered his voice and said, “We’ll also have someone check into the depot the package was sent from. Now that we know he has your cell number, we’ll tap it as well. Someone will be monitoring any calls to your landline or cell twenty-four hours a day.”

As Billy filled me in on the process, giving me lots of details and facts, my mind began to settle and I felt my confidence come back. Billy was right, I could handle this. Then my cell rang.

Billy grabbed the phone. Sandy closed hers and ran back.

Billy said, “Same number.” Sandy nodded and Billy handed the phone to me.

Sandy said, “Okay, Sara. You can answer it now.” But I couldn’t.

It continued to ring. They stared at me.

Sandy raised her voice. “
Answer
the phone.”

Billy said, “It’s okay, Sara, just like we talked about. You’ve got it in the bag, you’re ready to go.”

I looked down at the phone in my hand. Every ring clamored in my head. All I had to do was pick it up. Pick it up. Pick—

The ringing stopped.

Sandy said, “Shit! We lost him.”

Billy said, “Sandy, let’s just give her a moment, okay? He’ll call back.”

“If he doesn’t, we lost our only chance to stop him.”

“I’m sorry. I just—I panicked.”

Sandy looked like she was forcing herself to sound patient. “That’s all right, Sara, most likely he’ll call back.” She tried to smile, but I was sure she wanted to slap me. She held out her hand for the phone. “When he calls I’ll pretend to be you.”

Billy said, “Do you think that’s a good idea, Sandy? He’s heard her voice.” Sandy glared at him, but he just said, “Don’t worry, you’ll get your chance to rip him apart. When we catch him I’ll leave you alone in the room with him for a couple of hours.”

To my surprise, Sandy started to laugh, then pretended to throw her phone at Billy, which made me laugh. The tension faded from the room and I leaned back against the counter. It was okay. If we could still laugh, it was okay.

Billy turned to me. “Sara, I know you’re scared. But I also know you can do it, or we wouldn’t ask. You just have to get over the initial fear—once you start talking you’ll do great. Got any coffee?”

Just as I pointed to the stainless-steel flask behind them on the counter, the cell rang. They spun around.

“Remember, you can do this.” Billy’s voice was low and steady and rang with conviction. “Now pick up the phone!”

I took a deep breath and answered my father’s call.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Sara. How are you?” He sounded excited—eager.

“Why do you keep calling me?” My body began to vibrate and I sat down at the kitchen table. Sandy and Billy eased themselves into chairs across from me.

“Because I’m your dad.”

“I
have
a dad.”

He was silent. Sandy’s hand balled on the table like it was taking all her strength not to rip the phone from my hand.

“You can call me John for now.”

I didn’t say anything.

He said, “You got my present?”

“Yes. How did you get this number?”

“It was on the Internet.” Of course, my business was listed on a Web site directory. That must’ve been how he found me in the first place. Too late I remembered Evan’s warning,
You sure you want your cell number on there?

“Do you like the earrings?”

“Where did you get them from?” I knew I sounded angry, but I couldn’t stop the emotion from leaking into my voice. I glanced at Billy and he mouthed,
Keep going
. I didn’t look at Sandy.

John said, “Karen gave them to me.” I closed my eyes against the image his words created. He said something else, but it was drowned out by a roar from a vehicle going by.

He said, “Sorry about the background noise. I’m in my truck.”

“Where are you?”

He paused for a moment, then said, “It won’t work like that, Sara. I know you’ve probably called the cops and your landline’s tapped. But I won’t reveal anything they can use. Even if they trace this call, I know the Interior like the back of my hand. They’ll never find me.”

I stared at the two cops sitting at the table with me. Did he really know I’d called them or was he just bluffing? My pulse beat loud in my ear. I had to answer fast. “I didn’t tell anyone. I thought it was just a prank.”

He paused for a moment, then said, “I guess you probably got a few prank calls. Your family must be upset. Is that why you told the papers Karen Christianson wasn’t really your mother?”

My stomach muscles tightened at the intimate tone in his voice, his casual way of speaking about my family. Then I realized I’d found my way out.

“She’s
not
my mother. It was just a rumor someone started. I told you—”

“I saw your Facebook photo. You’re my daughter.”

My
Facebook
photo. How many others did he see? Did he know about Ally? My mind scrambled, trying to remember my profile settings.

He said, “And I saw Julia’s photo in the paper. I know she’s Karen Christianson. She hit me in the head.” The last sentence he said with grudging respect.

“Is that what this is about? You’re trying to find her?”

“I have no interest in her anymore.”

“Then what do you
want
?”

“I have to talk to you whenever I have the urge. It’s the only way I might be able to stop.”

“What … what will you stop?”

“Hurting people.”

I sucked in my breath as my thoughts scattered.

He said, “I have to go now. We’ll talk more next time—keep your phone with you.”

“I can’t always answer when you—”

“You have to answer.”

“But I may not be able to. Sometimes I’m busy and—”

“If you don’t answer, then I’ll have to do something else.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ll have to find
someone
.”

“No! No, don’t do that. I’ll keep my phone on—”

“I’m not bad, Sara. You’ll see.” He hung up.

*   *   *

He hasn’t called since. I know I should be happy—no news is good news, right? But I walk around in a constant state of anxiety. The first thing I did was check Facebook. Thankfully he could only see my profile picture because the rest were set to private, but I still removed everything. Billy and Sandy stayed until I’d calmed down, or as calm as I could be given what had just happened, and we went over what to do if he calls again. They want me to continue denying I told the police anything. Billy said the more confident John is, the more likely he’ll make a mistake. But I think he has good reason to feel confident.

The police weren’t able to triangulate the call because he’d made it from somewhere west of Williams Lake and they could only get a signal from one tower. It took almost an hour for the local police to get there, and by then he could’ve been anywhere. All they could do was patrol the main highway and back roads, stopping vehicles, asking homeowners if they’d seen any strangers in the area. But without a vehicle description they don’t have much to go on. He was also using a stolen phone, which sent them on another wild goose chase as they tried to track down the owner.

I’ve traveled through BC and I know the more populated towns are in the southern part of the Interior, the Okanagan region, but when you’re in the Central and Northern Interior, most of the towns are small. They’re also hours apart, with nothing but mountains and valleys surrounding them. You don’t have to drive far to disappear into the wilderness. And if the remoteness of the terrain wasn’t bad enough, Billy said there can be delays getting information from the service provider, and sometimes the signal even pings off the wrong tower. I asked about GPS, but apparently he can just turn that feature off.

Billy thinks John knew exactly how long it would take for the police to get to the area. Even the pay phones he’d called me from were all remote locations like old campsites and rest areas, which meant no witnesses or cameras. They also think he makes sure there are multiple routes to the location, so he’s never fenced in. The police still seem sure they’ll find him, but I’m having some serious doubts. They don’t think he realizes they can tap my cell, but he said it himself, it doesn’t matter what I told them or if they traced the call, he knows the Interior like the back of his hand. He’s been getting away with this for over thirty
years
. What’s going to stop him now?

*   *   *

When I told Evan what happened he freaked out and wanted me to tell the cops I wouldn’t do it. I told him they thought I was their only chance to find him, and if they didn’t he’d keep killing. Finally we agreed I’d take it one day at a time. He came home on Monday—God, I was happy to see him—but I still couldn’t relax. We finally sat down and did the guest list, but then Billy called to see how I was doing. I left the table so I could talk to him out in my shop and when I came back in Evan said, “One of your boyfriends?”

“Ha, ha. It was that cop I met the other day. Sorry for taking so long—we were talking about John.”

“No worries.”

But I
was
worried. I couldn’t stop thinking about what I should say next time John called. We went for a long walk with Ally and Moose that night and rented a comedy, but I couldn’t tell you one thing that happened in that movie.

Evan said he hates seeing me so scared and upset, but I can’t help it. While I’m making dinner for Ally, while I’m tucking her in at night, while we’re brushing our teeth in the morning, all I’m thinking about is whether the police will catch John before he kills someone.

I’ve read every article on his victims. I know about Samantha, the pretty blond nineteen-year-old who was camping in a provincial park with her boyfriend. He was shot twice in the back as he tried to escape. They found Samantha’s body a couple of miles into the park. Her arm was broken in three places from a fall, and as she fled through the woods something jabbed straight through her cheek. The Campsite Killer covered her face with her Nike T-shirt, then raped and strangled her. I used to have the same shirt.

I know about Erin, the brunette softball player who decided to go camping by herself and was found two weeks later by someone’s dog—he brought her hand back to the campfire where his owners were roasting marshmallows. The police had to use dental records to identify what was left after the animals got to her.

Sleep has become my nighttime nemesis. I wander the house or watch late-night TV while the clock ticks. I have baths, showers, drink warm milk, and lie on Ally’s bed stroking her curls while she sleeps. If Evan’s home I curve my body around his, try to match my breathing with his, and daydream about how beautiful our wedding will be. Nothing helps.

When I’m not reading about John online, I’m researching serial killers: Ed Kemper, Ted Bundy, Albert Fish, the Green River Killer, BTK, the Hillside Stranglers, the Zodiac Killer, Canada’s Robert Pickton and Clifford Olson, and too many more. I study their patterns, their triggers, their victims, every detail of their horrific crimes. That’s in addition to the books by FBI profilers and psychologists.

I compare theories and arguments—psychopath, mental defect, chemical imbalance, dysfunctional childhood? I take pages and pages of notes and when I finally do fall into an exhausted sleep, I have nightmares of women leaping off diving boards onto pavement or running through fields of broken glass. I hear their screams. I hear them beg, but they’re begging me to stop chasing them. In the dreams they’re running away from
me
.

SESSION SEVEN

It was my birthday on Friday, but I wasn’t in the mood to celebrate. Evan tried so hard to cheer me up. He’d obviously taken Ally shopping—she gave me a beautiful green cashmere cardigan—and he spoiled me with a new mountain bike. I made sure to exclaim over their gifts, forced down three pieces of the pizza they made, and laughed in all the right places at the movie we rented. But my head was filled with thoughts of Julia.

Growing up I often wondered on my birthday what my real mother was doing, if she even remembered the date. Now I wondered if all these years I’d been celebrating, Julia had been tortured with memories of me forcing my way out of her body, of John forcing his way in.

When I first held Ally in my arms after she was born, I couldn’t imagine ever letting her go. I’d been scared I wouldn’t be a good mother, would screw it up somehow, but as soon as her little fingers grabbed mine, I fell head over heels. I also became fiercely protective, watching carefully if anyone held her, taking her back if she fussed. It was hard being a single mom—money was tight and I had to carry Ally in a Snuggie on my back when I worked in my shop—but I loved that it was just her and me against the world. Before Ally, I never felt like I had roots, and in my darkest depressions I thought it wouldn’t matter if I died, no one would miss me. But when I had her I finally had someone who loved me unconditionally, who
needed
me.

She’s growing up so fast—gone are the days when she’d play imaginary fairy games with me like wiz-a-boo and pansy ears. I don’t want to miss one moment of her life. I don’t want to be distracted when she tells me stories about her teacher, Mrs. Holly, whom she idolizes because she has straight long blond hair and can tap-dance, or about a bug Moose just ate, or when she sings all the songs from
Hannah Montana
. I don’t want to rush her to bed at night or out of the house in the morning. But I’m so afraid John will call and hear her in the background.