I cannot fault a man for wanting to own his past, and there is no denying that the tragedy works its magic on Claire. For so many years, people have been trying to take care of your little sister. I think with Paul, she finally sees an opportunity to take care of someone else.
If your mother were reading this letter, she would tell me to get to the point. I suppose I should, because the point is this:
Here is the inscription Ben Carver wrote for me in the Dr. Seuss book:
“First you must have the images. Then come the words.”
Robert James Waller.
Images.
Ben had taken and distributed images of his crimes. This was part of his legend, his infamy. There were said to be hundreds of photographs and films on the black market that showed him with various victims. But Ben was already in prison. He was not giving me a clue to his own crimes. He was giving me a clue to his competition.
Images.
I had read that word before—many times before.
As with all the suspects in your disappearance, Huckleberry blacked out one particular man’s name, but here are the details I transcribed from a deputy investigator’s notes in your case file:
XXXXXX XXXXX peeping Tom. Seasonal gardener for UGA grounds crew, arrested 1/4/89; 4/12/89; 6/22/90; 8/16/91— all charges dropped. Targets older female teens, blonde, attractive (17–20). MO: stands outside ground-floor windows and takes what he calls “images”—photographs or recordings of women in various states of undress. Deceased 1/3/1992 (car accident; wife also deceased; 16 y.o. son in boarding school/Alabama).
Images.
The peeping Tom was alive when you went missing. He sought out young women around your age, around your hair color, around your beauty. Had he stood outside the window to your ground-floor bedroom and taken images of you? Had he watched you brush your hair and talk to your sisters and undress for bed? Had he seen you on campus when he was working for the grounds crew? Had he followed you to the Manhattan that night? Had he followed you again when you left the bar?
Had he decided that his images were not enough?
You may be wondering how Ben Carver got his hands on a copy of your case file. As I told you earlier, Ben is somewhat of a celebrity, even in prison. He receives correspondence from all around the world. According to the warden, Ben traffics in information. This is how he gets extra meals and protection inside the dangerous walls of death row. He finds out what people want to know and he doles it out to them at his pleasure.
Images.
How did Ben know that this word of all words would jog my memory? That it would send me running back to my wall, shuffling through my stack of notebooks, looking for the words I had transcribed from your file almost six whole years ago?
After ten months, after forty-eight visits, did Ben know my mind that well?
The question will remain unanswered. Ben is the type of psychopath who claims he likes the wind to direct his sails, but occasionally, I have seen him dip his hand into the water, rudder-like, to change the course.
And with that one word—images—he changed the course of my life.
The peeping Tom’s name was Gerald Scott.
His son is your baby sister’s new boyfriend.
TWELVE
Claire opened her eyes. The popcorn ceiling had a brownish tinge. The shag carpet felt damp against her back. She was lying on the floor. A pillow was under her head. Her tennis shoes were off.
She sat up.
Paul.
He was alive!
Claire felt a singular moment of absolute elation before she came hurtling back down to earth. Then her mind filled with questions. Why had he faked his death? Why had he fooled her? Who had helped him? What was he doing at the Fuller house? Why had he punched her?
And where was her sister?
“Lydia?” Claire could barely get out the word. Her throat was on fire. She pulled herself up to standing. She fought a rushing nausea as she stumbled against the television. Her cheekbone sent out small explosions of pain. “Liddie?” she tried. Her voice was still hoarse, but the panic spurred her to scream as loud as she could. “Liddie?”
There was no answer.
Claire ran down the hallway toward the garage. She threw open the door. The videotapes. The chains. The blood. They were all still there, but no Lydia. She pulled the door shut behind her as she ran back down the hallway. She checked the bedrooms, the bathroom, the kitchen,