Oliver Stark: 88 Killer

It suggested an ordered mind. And that’s how she wanted it to look.

She felt just like a dam wall trying to stop the waters from breaking through. She knew she could neither fight nor outrun the panic attacks. The best she could do was to try to distract herself. But she could feel fears looming — the black thoughts that had started to seep through from her dreams into the new day.

She held the memories at bay for several minutes. Then a half-thought appeared. His face in the shadows. And suddenly she was in the dungeon again and the whole fragile world seemed in danger of splitting open.

Denise threw back the duvet and stood up. Movement helped. She rushed through to the utility room, took her sweat-pants from the basket and pulled them on, then an old tank top. She put on a hoodie and her old sneakers and ran out of the apartment, slamming the door, heading fast down the eight flights of stairs.

Then she was out in the street gulping air. The sense of terror was intense; she felt a momentary release, but she had only avoided it for a moment — the panic was still chasing her down. She felt the thoughts hiding somewhere in her mind, just behind her eyes, waiting.

Denise sprinted up the street, avoiding the look of anonymous faces, hearing only the rumble of the city and feeling only the morning chill. Her feet pounded with long strides and her heart raced. She turned south and headed across the Brooklyn Bridge, out to the projects — the destitute parts of Brooklyn where she had grown up.

On the street her head continued to swarm with dark thoughts. The fears returned, but so did the image of Tom Harper, the man she’d once admired. She could no longer deal with him in the aftermath — and as much as he tried to contact her and talk, she just flat out refused. Tom Harper had been cut off. Daniel, her boyfriend, was another casualty. He’d stayed around long enough to know she had changed, then he took the dog and moved someplace else. Denise didn’t feel much about it.

She hit the ground hard, pushing her muscles as far as she could, and kept it going, thirty seconds, forty seconds, a minute… her heart rate soaring, her mind blank. It was working. She kept it up for another minute and then slowed her pace and settled into a rhythm, feeling the sweat start to form around her hairline and down her back.

Her therapist called it ‘acting out’. To escape the panic, she had to put herself in danger out there on the streets. Because the danger made sense, and the fear of the outside world didn’t seem as bad as the terror inside. The pain of burning muscles was nothing to the memories that left her choking on her own silence.

She knew the theory. As a psychologist herself, she had trained and taught at Columbia, then re-trained as a police therapist for the NYPD. She knew far too much about radical trauma and its manifestations. In medical terms, she knew what she was. In layman’s terms, she was a basket case, running away from fear, losing touch with everything and everyone.

She ran for an hour then arrived back exhausted but calmed. She stopped across the street and stared at a car outside her building. It wasn’t one she’d noticed before. She saw the window ajar and smoke twirling from inside and felt a stab of panic.

‘You’re being a freak, Denise. Stop it. It’s just a car.’ She tried to move but her limbs refused to obey. She looked around, feeling self-conscious as she stood paralyzed on the sidewalk, the sweat beginning to roll off her.

Two long minutes passed. Denise could make out two forms in the car. Two men, possibly. She twisted her fingers together as she looked at the door to her building. The car was parked illegally. She could see the two men looking around. They were waiting for somebody. She had to do something about this debilitating fear. After the abduction, Harper had given her the name of a specialist — a guy called Mac who he said could help her. She’d dismissed it at the time, but she’d always kept his number. Denise pulled out her cell phone and dialed. There was just an answerphone message giving the times of the classes and the address.

Denise had wanted to speak to a person. She needed help. She’d done so much herself and come a long way, but she needed to walk around without fear. She finally talked herself into crossing the street. She planned to keep her head straight, keep tight to the building and make her way inside immediately.

As soon as she started to walk past the car, the two doors opened. They must have been checking their mirrors. Denise jerked to a halt. She wanted to react well, to appear normal, but it sent a shiver right through her and her eyes shifted about for an escape route.

The two people were out of the car quickly, both medium height, purposeful, tidily dressed. Their quick eyes and languid movements told her that these were cops or gangsters, but most likely cops.

‘Miss Levene,’ said one of them.

Denise didn’t speak, she just nodded slightly.

The first cop held out his shield. He had obviously sensed her apprehension.

‘Sorry to jump out like that. Detective Munroe, Missing Persons.’

Denise looked at the second officer. She’d been wrong. It wasn’t a man, but a tall athletic woman with broad shoulders.

‘Detective Gauge,’ she said, smiling.

Denise was standing and sweating, aware that she looked like a car-crash victim.

‘What do you want?’ she said firmly.

‘You’re hard to get hold of, Miss Levene.’

‘Am I?’

Detective Sarah Gauge had warm brown eyes and a way of holding people’s attention. She stepped forward, her gestures open and non-aggressive. ‘I failed, if the truth be told, Miss Levene. I tried calling you, but you never pick up. I came round here three times, you never answer your buzzer.’

Denise Levene stared at them both. Still distrustful. ‘I wondered who was calling,’ she said. ‘Most people stopped trying a month back. I don’t socialize much.’

‘We need to talk to you,’ said Detective Munroe. ‘If that’s possible.’

‘About what? I’m not a missing person, I’m just not very good company.’

Detective Munroe opened his hands, showed both palms. ‘We just need your help. Can we come inside, Miss Levene? It’d be good to talk to you.’

‘It’s Dr Levene, for the record.’

‘We’re aware of your academic qualifications, Doctor. My apologies.’

‘You must be desperate to look me up. Someone at the NYPD send you?’

Munroe shook his head. ‘We can tell you more inside.’

Denise tried to imagine why they were there. ‘You’re both from Missing Persons?’

‘Right.’

Denise looked up. The city was concrete gray under a pale blue sky. The traffic was rushing by in a frenzied continuous strain. The sweat was turning cold on her skin. She turned back to Sarah Gauge. ‘So, who’s missing?’

Gauge glanced at Munroe then cleared her throat. ‘You heard of Abby Goldenberg? The missing schoolgirl, Abby?’

‘No,’ said Denise. ‘Should I have?’

‘It’s been on the news. She went missing a week ago.’

‘I don’t watch much TV.’ Denise hadn’t heard of Abby, but the name Goldenberg rang a bell somewhere in her memory.

‘Kind of cut yourself off,’ said Munroe. He pushed a finger in one ear and scratched. ‘It’s not a solution.’

‘You’d know this?’ said Denise. ‘Because you’re a psychiatrist, right? Forgive me, I didn’t realize.’

Munroe’s lips formed a half-smile. ‘No, lady, I’m no shrink. It’s common sense. No one learned to ride again by hiding from a horse.’