You Only Die Twice

Chapter THIRTY-THREE





“There’s a fire,” Patty Jennings said. “In Monson. Look.”

Along with Barbara Coleman, who asked her to stay the night with her and James “because we’ll worry terribly about you if you don’t,” Patty sat in a fresh pair of clothes on a generous-sized sofa and looked at the television across from her.

They were in the living room. The six o’clock news was on. In the center of the screen was an aerial shot of the portion of Monson that was burning.

“I don’t see any signs of the fire department,” Barbara said.

“Out there, it’s strictly volunteer. It might take a while.”

“A fire that size should attract the help of a few towns.”

“It probably will. But it’s so rural out there, even the surrounding towns that have fire departments are volunteer. What they need to do is get Bangor and Brewer out there before it really gets out of hand.”

“I hate fires,” Barbara said. “Especially forest fires. I always worry for the animals.”

“So do I.”

“There’s just a breeze here in Bangor, but there, it looks as if they’re having gusts of wind, which will only make the fire worse. And it’s dark now, which will make it harder to fight when the fire departments arrive.” She shook her head. “What a shame. Monson is a ghost town. How did a fire like that begin?”

Patty shrugged. “The only thing I can think of is that it’s hunting season. Somebody either took a shot and it created a spark, or they were smoking and didn’t put out their cigarette properly.”

“Don’t get me started on hunting season,” Barbara said. “I have no issue with hunting deer or moose or whatever if a family needs the meat to get through the winter. That just makes sense to me. So does thinning the herd, which is another service hunters offer. But sport hunting just so you can mount a dead head on a wall? That repels me. Who wants a glassy-eyed head mounted on their wall? Or a big fish stuffed to gills? I don’t get it.”

Patty smiled, but didn’t respond. The newscast cut to another story and she sat in something of a fog as she recalled her day. The emergency room visit. The judgmental look she caught from one of the nurses on duty while her vagina was swabbed. Taking her story downtown with James, where they continued their conversation with one of his detective friends. The humiliation of having to tell some stoney-faced detective that she left her friend behind to go home with a stranger who ultimately raped her―and then posted photos of her on a website, which she also shared with him.

At least his face is out there, she thought. At least they got the drawing right.

Earlier, when she first turned on the news, his face and the act he “presumably” committed were the lead story. People who were at The Grind the night before were asked to call the Bangor Police Department if they had any leads on who the man was, what he drove, and if he left with anybody.

So far, her name was kept out of it, but eventually it would break, and then people would know what she’d done. They’d say she deserved what she got, they’d say she was a horrible friend to Cheryl Dunning, and the fire that had smoldered for years about her personal life, skewed and ruined by her ex-boyfriend’s lies and malice, would burst into flames again, making the fire burning in Monson look small in comparison.

But could she blame them? She played straight into their hands. She became the person everyone thought she was.

What was I thinking?

If she thought before that living in a small town was dangerous, once news hit that it was she who was raped, she knew she’d find out just how dangerous it really was.

Her colleagues at the bank would be relentless in how they treated her, which in Maine meant stone-cold looks and long stretches of silence with plenty of back-stabbing occurring out of earshot. They would ridicule her in such a way that it might undermine her performance and cost her her job. There’d be no sympathy for what she’d been through. She knew that. She knew that they’d only want to get rid of her. At last, this was their opportunity. They would seize upon it.

So, maybe it was time to move. Start over somewhere else. She was still young. She could remain in Maine, which she loved, but just go to Portland, where there were plenty of jobs. It wasn’t a bad idea.

But staying here was.

The front door opened and Patty looked up with Barbara as James Coleman entered the foyer. He was wearing a black top coat and gloves, which Barbara took from him when she stood up to greet him.

“Have you heard anything?” she asked.

Patty reached for the remote and turned the television on mute.

“Would you mind a coffee, Barbara?”

“Let me get you one. It won’t take long with that new coffee maker I bought.”

He thanked her and took the chair to Patty’s left. Fatigue was all over his face. He looked troubled. “How are you?” he asked her.

“Worried.”

“And physically?”

“I’ll be fine. Have you learned anything?”

“I have, but we’ll wait for Barbara.”

When Barbara entered from the kitchen, she gave her husband a cup of coffee and sat down on the sofa beside Patty while he sipped.

“Detectives found blood on the pavement outside The Grind. A good deal of it. Cheryl’s parents were notified and the good news is that somewhere in their records, they had their daughter’s blood type, which is O positive. The bad news is that happens to be the most common blood type. Still, since Cheryl is nowhere to be found, it’s reasonable to believe that that blood is her blood. There is evidence that a body was dragged several yards, probably to a vehicle. A trail of smeared blood proves that fact. Whoever was driving made the mistake of leaving a bit of rubber in their wake when they tore out of the place. The detectives were able to get a read on the make of the tires, which suggest they belong to a Ford F-150 XTL. The detectives will be here soon to collect samples of Cheryl’s hair from her pillow case and maybe from a brush or a comb in her bathroom. The DNA test will take between five to ten days to complete and thus to confirm that the blood belongs to Cheryl.”

He turned to Patty. “In the short run, what you did today will be more valuable in helping to find her. The composite of the man who raped you already is responsible for generating several phone calls to the police from those who were at The Grind when you and Cheryl were there. Some remember his face. One said they saw him taking photographs with his phone, but didn’t think much of it because people generally take photographs of their friends while they’re out. Or so I was told. The person didn’t recall who the man was photographing, but the detectives now know from security footage that the man you described in detail was indeed the man taking photographs of you. The footage is grainy because the bar was dim and the equipment is old, but it’s clear that you and Cheryl were being targeted.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know why. Have you or Cheryl dated anyone recently? Is this someone from either of your recent pasts?”

She shook her head. “In spite of what I did last night, I haven’t been with a man, including a simple date, in over a year. I think it’s been at least two years for Cheryl. We tell each other everything. I’d know if she was seeing someone or had dated someone.”

“What I know is that we have momentum,” Coleman said. “We have a make on a possible vehicle, which the police are seeking. We also have a partial print of a boot in the blood, which was large enough to suggest that it belongs to a man. All witnesses who came forward confirmed your composite of the man, which they agreed was accurate. Not one person said they’d change anything, so good job on that.”

He took another sip of his coffee and stopped when he caught a glimpse of the television across from him. On it, a forest was being ravaged by flames.

“Where is that?” he asked.

“Monson,” Patty said. “It’s burning.”