“I’ve done some very bad things,” he said in a voice laced with regret. “I hurt some women, real bad.”
Ruth shifted in her chair, frowning. This didn’t sound good at all.
It had been a relief when her client, fifty-three-year-old Hank Eames, finally agreed to face away from her on the sofa and remove his black Stetson. Straight on, the man was intimidating. This was his sixth session, and even facing away, he still made her feel uncomfortable, partly because of his constant cold glare, and partly because he fit the profile of her rapist with his wide, thick-fingered hands, large build, and arms covered by dense, dark hair.
Normally, Hank would not be someone she was interested in taking on as a client. In the past, he’d been a surly man, too much of a handful for Ruth, or so she thought. But Doc Farley had appealed to her desire to help. Since the tractor accident, Hank had lost the ability to drive himself long distances, and Ruth was the only therapist in town, and he needed help to get the basic functions of his life back on track. Furthermore, despite Hank’s cold scowl, his injury had affected the aggressive tendencies he once had. He was not quite a lamb, but he was no longer a lion.
They had been working on coming up with varied menus that Hank could prepare, as well as a list of places he could go to get him out of the Prairie Dog Saloon at night. So far, he hadn’t had great success with the second part, but some behaviors were difficult to alter.
“What do you mean, Hank? How did you hurt women?” she asked.
“Bad things. Like, maybe I tortured them. Maybe I came on too strong.”
Ruth swallowed and called on her courage. “How did you torture them?”
His stubby fingers tapped nervously on the arm of the sofa. “You know . . . like tie ’em up and have at it.”
“Sexually? Do you mean you raped women?”
“Wasn’t really rape.”
“You’re saying it was consensual?”
Silence. Hank didn’t have an answer.
The air in the room was suddenly icy cold, sending a chill down her spine as the air-conditioner rattled on, a constant racket that would cover up the sound if she were to scream. Moving silently behind him, Ruth shut the unit off and forced herself to take a breath in the subsequent stillness.
She worked to keep her voice steady, not wanting him to know that her heart was pounding in her chest. “What was it, Hank? When did this happen?”
“That’s the thing I’m kind of foggy about. I mean, I’m not completely sure. Maybe I just saw it in a movie, or maybe I just thought about it. You know how that is, darlin’. Like fantasies.”
“Stick to the rules, Hank. You can call me Ruth or Dr. Baker.”
“Oh, yeah. Sorry ’bout that, but you know what I mean, right? Sometimes there’s a fuzzy line between what you’ve done and what you wanted to do, and when you add in the accident for me, a lot of things before that time just don’t make sense. This head of mine is like a dark, abandoned well. No telling what’s been shoved down there.”
Was he telling the truth, or toying with her? It wasn’t the first time she sensed that Hank had retained more of his long-term memory than he was letting on, though it was hard to tell what he remembered and what he was fabricating from television shows or stories he’d heard. But damn it, she wanted to know if his guilt was based on reality.
“You know,” she said, “there are treatments that might help unlock the memories. If they’ve been suppressed because of post-traumatic stress, memories may be retrieved through hypnosis or guided imagery.”
“Really?” He shifted on the couch, casting his ravening gaze on her. “Can you do that for me?”
She angled her body away from him, trying not to feel pinned down by his stare. “It’s not my specialty,” she said, “but I’ll look for someone in Jackson.”
“I can’t go that far. Can’t drive anymore.”
“I’ll find a specialist who’s willing to come here,” Ruth said. She would pay the fees herself if it meant coming closer to unlocking the mystery of that night long ago.
Was she crossing a line of professionalism, now that she felt she might have a personal stake? Maybe. But the fact remained that she was the only therapist in town. Hank Eames needed help, and for now she was committed to helping him discover the truth.
*
Late Thursday night, Ruth was reading in bed when her cell phone rang—another call from the hotline. She was pleased to hear Lily’s voice again.
“I was hoping you would call back,” Ruth said. “Our conversation was so short. I didn’t get a chance to tell you the different ways I could help you.”
“I’m not calling for help. Nobody can help me more than I’ve helped myself by getting away.”
“Distance can help facilitate healing,” Ruth agreed. “I did that myself. Left Prairie Creek and went off to college and didn’t come back for a long time.”
“But I’m never going back anywhere near Prairie Creek.”
“I’m not trying to pressure you to return,” Ruth said.
“That’s good, because it would be a lost cause. Like I said, I’m only calling you to warn you. I do Internet searches on Prairie Creek news every day. Kind of sick, I know, but it’s the only way I can stay in touch with my home. When I read about Courtney Pearson and Addie Donovan, I had to warn someone.”
Ruth stilled. “Do you have information about the crimes? Something the police should know?”
“I’m not calling the police, if that’s where you’re headed. The last thing I need is them tracing my number and dragging me back there.”
“What’s your warning, Lily?”
“There’s a crazy man out there. He kidnaps girls and takes them to a cabin in the wilderness. Keeps them as his personal sex slaves. He did it to me, but I got away when . . . when I had the chance. I just know he kidnapped Courtney Pearson.”
She sounded a bit belligerent, as if she felt Ruth wouldn’t believe her.
“Did you see Courtney at the hunting shack?”
“No, but I just know it was him. He wants victims in his lair at all times. Once Courtney died, I’ll bet he reeled in that high school girl, Addie Donovan.”
Ruth shivered at the startling accuracy of Lily’s theory. “May I share your warning with the police?”
“That’s the point of me calling, isn’t it?”
“I appreciate your courage in calling, Lily. Do you want to talk about ways I can help you?” When the young woman sucked in her breath, Ruth added, “Strictly over the phone. We can talk about different types of therapy, different ways to cope with trauma in your life. Ways to cope so that trauma doesn’t hold us back from happiness.”
Lily scoffed at that. “It’s too late for me.”
“It’s never too late to try.”
“I passed that road a long time ago. But I’ve got a kid, and she’s the one I worry about. Well, not a kid anymore. She’s in high school now, and she’s a really good kid, but it’d destroy her if she found out that . . . that . . .”