Brenda Novak - Home to Whiskey Creek

“Did you get the color, or the make and model?”

“No. The blindfold was too tight.” And when she’d tried to remove it, he’d panicked and struck her. That was the first time he’d hit her, but it wasn’t the most painful, just a glancing blow on the cheek.

“What about before the blindfold? Were you able to see him or any part of him?”

She wished she could tell the police chief to forget about the incident, but she knew that would only make him wonder at her reaction. She had to act as if she wanted her kidnapper caught. “Just that first glimpse.”

“And...”

She swallowed. “I’m afraid I can’t give you a description. It was so dark, and he was wearing a ski mask.”

Stacy frowned as he formulated another question. “Did he have any exposed skin? Any tattoos or birthmarks?”

“He was completely covered.”

“What was he wearing?”

“Black pants and a black sweatshirt.” That much was true, but the sweatshirt had a strange logo on it, a bright yellow logo with a website URL that was easy to remember. Thanks to the light of a full moon streaming through that screen door, she’d spotted www.SkintightEntertainment.com before he’d managed to blindfold her. But she was giving Stacy only generic information, information she felt safe providing. As far as she knew, that URL could be connected to where the culprit worked, could lead police right to him.

“Were his clothes particularly expensive or cheap?” Stacy asked. “I mean—” he leaned forward, beseeching her with his body language “—did you notice anything that might help identify him? What kind of guy was this?”

A guy who wore a brand of cologne she normally would’ve liked. She remembered that, too—but it was another detail she planned to keep to herself. “They were just your basic cargo pants and a plain sweatshirt. They could’ve come from any department store.”

He put his coffee down again so he could make a few notes. “Can you tell me how tall he was?”

She’d known instantly what the encounter was about, which had evoked immediate terror. And the abduction happened so fast. She doubted she could answer all of Chief Stacy’s questions even if she really wanted the man apprehended.

“About my height.” She had no idea if that was true. He could’ve been an inch or two taller, or an inch or two shorter, but six feet sounded average. She was embellishing, changing this or that, describing a person who didn’t exist, so what did it matter?

“And his build?”

This time she didn’t have to make anything up. The truth described a large proportion of the male population, so she could speak honestly. “He was...fairly muscular, I guess. But not overly so.”

“Can you guess at his weight?”

She went for what would be likely, given the height and body build she’d stated. “About two hundred. I can’t recall, to be honest.”

Stacy took another bite of cake. “What about age?”

“Middle-aged?” She certainly didn’t want to say close to her age, which was what she believed. Anyway, age wasn’t easy to determine in a situation like that.

“Did he speak with a lisp or an accent or...use foul language? Was there anything distinctive about his voice?”

Her kidnapper had spoken in a hoarse whisper. That hadn’t evoked the memory of any particular boy, but it had brought back what she’d experienced fifteen years ago, deluging her with the kinds of images that plagued her worst nightmares. Hold her still, damn it!

In retrospect, however, when she examined the details of this most recent attack, she felt he hadn’t been taking any pleasure in what he was doing. Especially once she started shaking and crying and pleading with him not to rape her again. He’d muttered—and she’d only now remembered this—“Stop it! I—that’s not who I am!”

“Adelaide?” Chief Stacy’s voice intruded on her thoughts.

She glanced up. “Yes?”

“I asked if there was anything distinctive about his voice.”

“Oh.” She wiped her palms on her thighs. “No.”

His cup clinked on the china saucer. “Do you know any reason someone would want to harm you? If he didn’t...rape you, what did he want? Did he ask for anything? Demand money?”

“No.” She shrugged. “At first, I—I thought he was intent on rape, but...”

“Looks like you fought tooth and nail. I’m sorry about your injuries.”

His sympathy made her feel guilty for shading the truth, but she had to do what she could to make this go away. “I’m fine now, thank you. It’s all...minor stuff, really. I’ll recover.”

“You forced him to reconsider. I’m proud of you for that.”

Her kidnapper was the one who’d made it possible for her to fight by tying her hands in front of her instead of behind her back. She couldn’t get them loose until she was alone in the mine, but she could use them—like when she’d attempted to remove her blindfold. Such a tactical error gave her the impression that he wasn’t used to abducting people. He’d gone for what was quick and convenient because he was in a hurry and was afraid of getting caught, possibly by Gran. Maybe he figured his threats and the knife he’d brought would keep her cowed.

Anyway, she felt even more uncomfortable at Stacy’s compliment than she’d already been. She wasn’t out to elicit praise. She was hoping to present a degree of believability, to put together a coherent story, so that his curiosity would be satisfied and she could get out of the spotlight as soon as possible. “At one point, he mumbled that he couldn’t go through with it and just...tossed me into the mine.”

She’d fabricated his change of heart. He hadn’t even attempted to rape her. She’d been fighting because she’d been afraid he might. She was so convinced that she was in for more of what she’d endured at sixteen that, once she was away from the house and he couldn’t hurt Gran, she’d let loose with everything she had and nearly caused them to crash. The sound of scraping metal told her his vehicle had sustained some damage. That was when he’d slugged her—hard. Other than that, and when she’d nearly managed to remove her blindfold, he hadn’t hit her.

“Doesn’t mean he won’t try to rape someone else,” Stacy said. “I’ll find this guy, I promise.”

She hoped not. That was all she needed—a string that would unravel the past. Even an overzealous search could spook the man who’d appeared in her bedroom. Then there was no telling what he might do. Fear could push him into taking risks he wouldn’t otherwise take. That was what it had done to her when she’d tried to crash his car.

“Is there anything else you remember?”

She shook her head, but she could probably describe Tom Gibby, Kevin Colbert or any of the others in great detail and Stacy would never suspect them. They’d been athletic, popular, good students—and were apparently successful adults. Tom Gibby was a postal clerk, a steady, devoted family man. And Coach Colbert was married to his high school sweetheart and had three kids. She hadn’t asked about Derek Rodriguez or Stephen Selby. She hadn’t wanted to string those four names together. But she doubted Derek and Stephen would be at the top of Chief Stacy’s suspect list, any more than Kevin or Tom. They certainly hadn’t acted out since high school. Or, if they had, no one knew about it. Gran had visited her regularly all the years she’d been gone, and they talked on the phone every few days when they weren’t together. She would’ve heard if any of the people she’d known had been charged with a crime. She also received the Gold Country Gazette, Whiskey Creek’s weekly paper, at her apartment in Davis. So even if Gran didn’t mention an arrest, the newspaper would. She’d subscribed for that very reason.