3 #3
I stick with the story that was told from the very beginning. Too late to try to walk that one back. “I wish I knew. During my time in captivity, I never saw anyone else. Obviously, when I was home again, I heard about poor Wendy.”
“So you, like many,” she offers, “believe her disappearance was not related to yours.”
I shake my head. “I’m sorry. I have no idea.
I wish I did. I’m certain there’s someone out there who remembers her and cares about her .
. . but I can’t help with the answer. I really didn’t know her.
Of course I saw her at school. But we were in different classes and had different friends.
Most of what I know about her, I read in the newspaper. ”
A spark of that suspicion is back in her eyes. “There were a couple of your fellow students interviewed back then who claimed the two of you were friends. That you hung out together.”
This, too, was expected. Talia Brant did not achieve her current status by not doing her homework.
“Perhaps I would have been able to provide some insights to the authorities had those rumors been true. Unfortunately, like the Times article, they were fabrications.” Now for the next punch.
“I do wonder, though, why she didn’t come forward eventually.
If for no other reason than to stop the senseless waste of valuable police resources.
If she simply ran away from her latest foster home, as many came to suspect, why not let the proper authorities know? ”
“Her foster mother insisted she was abused in her previous foster homes. She claimed Wendy was really a good girl who just hadn’t been loved.”
Talia directs this information firmly at me, as if I didn’t already know and should be embarrassed to have spoken unkindly of the poor girl.
“Many have wondered,” she goes on in a somber tone, “if one of her previous foster fathers murdered her to keep her quiet and then hid the body.” Talia nods sadly at her own grave words. “Surely if Wendy were alive, she would have been found by now.”
“Surely,” I agree, wanting this part to be over.
She leans forward a bit, her gaze searching mine as if she might see something beyond my words. “It is possible that both of you were taken by the Judge and kept separately, is it not?”
Such a persistent woman.
“Anything is possible,” I agree, then angle my head and study her as she has me.
“Frankly, after hearing about the horrors of Wendy’s childhood and homelife, I can understand how she may have felt her only option was to run away.
Still, if she is alive and well somewhere, it was terribly selfish of her not to tell anyone. ”
Talia tries but isn’t quite successful at hiding her surprise. My comments on the subject of Wendy Neely are less than compassionate. Let her and her audience conclude of me what they will. She does not need to know or understand my motives.
“As for the possibility of her being a victim of the Judge,” I add to move things along since she appears to have stalled, “the FBI concluded that if she had been a victim of the Judge, her body would have been found—unless she was able to escape as I did. There is no precedent to believe otherwise.”
Talia nods, her expression subdued once more.
“That is the consensus, yes.” Her well-known public-personality smile reappears.
“The whole world will be beating down bookstore doors to get their hands on the memoir when it comes out. The Judge has a dozen victims attributed to his reign of terror, and no one has a clue about his identity or what became of him.”
“Perhaps the renewed focus will make the difference.” I offer this though I am fully aware that will likely never happen.
“After your abduction,” she says for the benefit of those who will be listening to this interview on Friday, “there were no more victims that fit the Judge’s MO.
The prevalent thinking is that he ended up in prison for some other crime.
Given the lack of evidence and identifying details about him, there is no way to be certain. ”
“Many,” I opt to point out, “suspect—hope—he’s dead.”
“Understandable,” she agrees. “On the other hand, it’s quite possible he took other victims we don’t know about, so finding him alive might bring closure to some of the many unsolved cases of missing women in the tristate area.
I can’t help hoping for that sort of resolution,” she admits.
“And frankly, I’d like to know why he murdered those women.
Why the ‘failure’ designation written on their foreheads?
In what way had they failed? Certainly they were all beautiful. ”
“I doubt we’ll ever know.” I grimace at my slip. I have found it’s best not to allow those particular conclusions to be known. Too late now.
“One last question.”
I wait. All manner of possibilities as to the substance of her next query flits through my mind. I am, however, grateful she apparently didn’t latch on to my last statement.
“Aren’t you afraid you’ll draw the attention of the Judge and that—if, in fact, he’s still alive and free—he’ll come back to finish what he started? After all, you are his one failure.”
For a single instant I consider giving her the answer that will truly shake her—not to mention the rest of the world—but that would be a mistake. I cannot take the risk.
“Like I said before, it has been twenty years,” I insist, ensuring there is nothing soft about my voice now. When this interview is aired, I want there to be no mistake—I am not afraid of what’s coming. “I believe time has proven that his reign of terror is over.”
The slightest smirk tests the arrogant reporter’s ability to keep a neutral face. “It sounds as if you’ve kept a watch for any similar abductions.”
Impatience sparks, but I tamp it down. “I would be a fool not to, wouldn’t you say?”
“Indeed,” she concedes with a touch of humility, as if this were a tennis match and she just lost the last round.
“Serial killers rarely change their MOs, and almost never stop until someone or something stops them,” I remind her.
After all, I’m the one with the doctorate in psychology, aren’t I?
“It’s possible, of course, but unlikely.
The man who abducted me always wore a mask.
Since he never left any trace of DNA evidence or even so much as a fingerprint on or around his victims, his identity, as we’ve established, is unknown.
” I stare out the window once more, wishing this day were over already so I can leave all this behind.
“Let’s be honest, if he wanted to find me again, he could have years ago. ”
“So, really, you’re not the slightest bit afraid?”
My attention settles on her once more. “Not at all. If by some twist of fate he is out there, let him come. Let him rise from whatever hole he has been hiding in so he can be caught. No one wants that more than me.”
It’s true. I’m not afraid. Not really. There is the risk, of course, that this whole fiasco could be a trap—a different one than I recognize. In any strategy things can shift. Go wrong. Players can react differently from what is expected. An unknown variable can pop into the mix.
My only real concern is for my daughter.
Ultimately, there is little I can do except hope that I am the one who will live to see how this ends.