"So he'd already prepared the pit, before he'd spotted you and decided to make his move?"
Bobby and D.D. exchanged that look again.
Bobby spoke up this time. "According to what you said earlier, Umbrio grabbed you on impulse, based on your outfit. So how could he have known to be so prepared?"
Catherine looked at him. "The pit wasn't new. He'd found it one day exploring in the woods. Turned it into a sort of secret hideaway for himself, where he could stash his weenie-whacking magazines and get away from his parents. And, of course, maintain his own personal sex slave." She shrugged again.
"But do I think he grabbed me on impulse? No. He saidthat, but I never believed him. He had rope, material for gagging my mouth, covering my eyes. What normal kind of person has that kind of stuff lying around in his car? Richard was a bondage freak. Every single fucking porn magazine he had was pretty much Bind That Bitch or Smack Her Ass. You're the experts, you tell me, but I would guess the idea of his own little rape kitten had been growing in his mind for some time. He had the physical size to do as he pleased. And he had the perfect location. All he lacked was the unwilling subject. So one afternoon in October, he went shopping."
"Shopping—your word or his?" D.D. asked sharply.
"Does it matter?"
"Yes."
Catherine arched a brow. "I don't remember."
"Catherine"—Bobby spoke up, earning an annoyed frown from D.D., who clearly planned on running the show—"how experienced do you think Umbrio was when he abducted you? Were you number one, number three, number twelve?"
"That's asking for speculation," Carson interjected.
"I understand."
Bobby kept staring at Catherine. She had placed her hands on the table. Now she flexed and curled her fingers as she considered his words.
"You mean sexually? Was he a virgin?"
"Yes."
For a moment, she didn't answer. "I was twelve," she said at last. "Not experienced enough myself to be any judge of those things. However…"
"However," Bobby prompted when she didn't continue.
"As a woman looking back? He was overeager in the beginning. Climaxed before he ever penetrated, then grew flustered and beat the shit out of me to cover his own embarrassment. That happened frequently those first few days. He would arrive with elaborate plans for what he wanted to do, but be so overexcited he'd ejaculate before we ever got going. With time, however, he settled down. Grew less eager, but more imaginative." Her lips twisted. "He learned to be cruel.
"So, if you ask, as a woman looking back, I would guess that he was inexperienced in the beginning. Certainly, his fantasies grew more complex and demanding with time, if that is any indication."
Her gaze suddenly pounced on me. "Did you know him?"
"Who?" I asked, slightly bewildered to have all eyes on me.
"Richard. What did you think of him?"
"I didn't… I haven't… I don't know him."
She frowned, turning once more to Bobby "I thought you said she was a survivor."
"She is. She survived being stalked by an unknown white subject in the early eighties. Who that subject was—e.g., was he Umbrio— is what we're trying to determine now."
She frowned at me again, clearly skeptical. "And you're basing this on what, the fact you believe she looks like me? Honestly, I don't think we bear that much of a resemblance." She flipped back her glossy black mane, managing to jut out her breasts in the same motion. I thought that made it clear just what she considered our key differences to be.
"Have you seen her before?" D.D. prodded Catherine, trying to get us back on track. "Does Tanya look familiar to you?"
"Of course not."
D.D. stared at me. "I haven't seen her before either," I confirmed. "But do the math. In the fall of 1980, I was five. What are the chances of me remembering a twelve-year-old girl?"
I turned back to Catherine on my own. "Did you live in Arlington?"
"Waltham."
"Go to church?"
"Hardly," she said.
"Visit any friends or family members in Arlington?"
"Not that stands out in my mind."
"What about your parents, what did they do?"
"My mother was a homemaker. My father worked as an appliance repairman for Maytag," she provided.
"So he traveled."
"Not into the city. His territory was the outlying suburbs. Yours?"
"My father was a mathematician, MIT," I offered.
"Different." Catherine frowned, more speculatively now. "Suffice it to say, in 1980, I doubt our paths crossed, at least not in any memorable kind of way."
"What about other relatives?" Bobby spoke up. "Given the, uh, family resemblance."
Catherine merely shrugged. "You and D.D. are reading too much into this. We both simply look Italian. There must be hundreds of other women in Boston who could say the same."