“Yes. That’s her,” he says.

  Belinda Smith. Date of birth—February 16, 1963. One sister and two brothers. Missing, presumed dead.

  “Can you remember the exact date of the incident?”

  “Thursday, November third, 1982. It was my twenty-fourth birthday. I picked her up along the I-5 outside of Eugene. People…women…hitchhiked a lot back then. She was a nice person. Pretty, too. She had this wristwatch. A Casio, I think. I remember that because I’d never seen a digital watch before. She smelled like baby talc. It was so hot out and she was real happy to get into a car with air conditioning. Ten minutes after I picked her up, I pulled into a rest area.”

  He pauses.

  “Yes?” I say.

  He gives me a blank look. “I don’t remember what came next.”

  Jane Duffy had warned me about this—the potential for Rex to feign a memory lapse. She advised me not to challenge him in case he clammed up so I wait for him to continue.

  Rex glances at me. “I know what you’re thinking, that I’m trying to avoid responsibility and so on and so forth, but I’m not. I know I must have killed her.”

  “What’s the next thing you remember?” I ask.

  “Looking down and seeing Ms. Smith’s dead body.”

  “When you say looking down, what do you mean?”

  “I was on top of her, in the passenger seat. There were bruises on her neck. Her face was blue. Her tongue…” he makes a gesture with his hands and pulls a disgust face, “was swelling up like crazy.”

  “Did you sexually assault her?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Were her clothes on or off when you came to?”

  He pauses. “Off below the waist.”

  “So it’s reasonable to assume you sexually assaulted her?”

  O’Leary sighs. “Ms. Kellaway, Mr. Hawkins has already said he doesn’t remember.”

  Rex interjects. “No, Vic. It’s all right. I accept that I must have.”

  “What did you do with the body?” I say.

  “I buried it in the woods.”

  “Do you remember where?”

  He nods. “I can show you.”

  Novak rises from his seat to retrieve a portfolio of satellite images and a large map of the Oregon area. He unfurls the map and places it in front of Rex. Rex traces his finger along the blue line that represents the 1-5 until he reaches Eugene, then he moves right, following the road inland toward Lowell.

  He taps the map. “There,” he says. “You’ll find her about a hundred yards in, the third rest area along the road. I recall some sort of statue, a stone memorial, Indian maybe. I can’t be sure.”

  Novak holds out a pen. “Mark it.”

  Rex does as instructed. Novak unfurls the satellite image and has Rex mark that, too. Once he’s done, Rex sits back in his chair and looks at me.

  “It was a long time ago now, Amelia. With animals and what-not, well…she may not all be there.”

  I think I detect genuine sadness but can’t be sure.

  “Anything’s better than nothing,” I say. “The families need closure and this will help.”

  “Well, that’s my intention, Amelia, to help. The best way I can.”

  Rex picks up the photo of Belinda Smith and looks at it solemnly.

  “She was a nice person,” he says, more to himself than to anyone else. “She didn’t deserve what happened.” He places the photo face down on the table. “If I could take it back, I would.”

  I long to ask him about remorse, what he did in the days and weeks after, whether he was racked by guilt. Then, as if reading my thoughts, he says—

  “I completely shut out what happened and never considered it again.” He reaches for the water in front of him and takes a sip. “Does that trouble you, Amelia?” he says, looking at me over the rim of the plastic cup.

  “It doesn’t matter what I think.”

  He seems mildly offended. “It matters to me.”

  He lowers his cup and falls silent and I wonder if I’ve blown it. If Belinda Smith is all we’re ever going to get.

  “Maybe your mind was protecting you from what happened,” I say, reaching for a connection. “It’s possible that a coping mechanism could have been at play.”

  Rex looks at me, contemplating. “That’s kind of you to say, Amelia, and such a nice way of seeing the world.” His eyes shift toward Novak, whose distaste is clearly displayed on his face. “I suspect Special Agent Novak doesn’t share your point of view. I suspect he’s thinking that the only thing at play here was a psychopath who couldn’t care less about the fact he’d just killed some innocent human being. Isn’t that right, Special Agent Novak? A psychopath with no conscience? No feelings? No remorse? Well, I’m here to tell you that isn’t true. I am sorry. More than any of you will ever know.” Rex bends his head and stares at his bible. “But that’s between me and the Lord now.”

  Novak bristles. “Stop with the sermonizing, Hawkins, and get on with it.”

  Rex looks at Novak evenly. “You wanted me to talk, so I’m talking.”

  I shift in my seat. The last thing I want is for this to devolve into some type of sparring match.

  “Let’s not lose focus, everyone. There’s a lot we need to get through,” I say.

  O’Leary chimes in. “Perhaps we should take a break.”

  Novak barks out a laugh. “A break? That’s totally out of the question. We’ve only covered one murder. At this rate we’ll be sitting here for six months.” He shakes his head, adamant. “No break. We keep going.”

  Rex waves a hand. “It’s all right, Vic. I’m fine.”

  “You hear that, O’Leary?” says Novak. “Your client is fine.”

  “Okay, Novak,” I warn.

  To my relief, Novak leans back in his chair and finally shuts his mouth.

  I turn to Rex. “Let’s continue, shall we? Who was next?”

  Rex looks at me directly. “Shelly White. Near on a year later.”

  Shelly White, thirty-two years old. The first woman I identified as a possible victim of Rex’s. Ten days after she was reported missing by her boyfriend, Shelly’s body was found in a shallow grave. The autopsy revealed she’d been the victim of a sustained sexual assault, the cause of death strangulation.

  “I had taken a few days off for a fishing trip and was camping along the Montana-Oregon border when this woman appeared out of nowhere. She was a little bitty thing. Upset as hell.” Rex looks at March. “You remind me of her actually, sweetheart. You’ve got the same soft, pretty eyes.” March goes red. I feel her discomfort and try to steer the conversation back to Shelly White.

  “Go on.”

  “She said her name was Shelly. She was lost, had a fight with her boyfriend, or some such thing, and had been wandering out in the woods for hours. It was getting dark and she was scared. She’d been crying. I felt sorry for her.”

  I imagine Shelly’s misguided relief at stumbling upon Rex and his campsite. No doubt, she would have thought he was her way out of there.

  “What happened next?”

  Rex shrugs. “We talked. Had coffee. It was nice.” He looks at me pointedly. “I wasn’t out to hurt anybody. She asked if we could leave. I told her it was too dark to drive. I said I didn’t know the area too well and didn’t want to risk getting lost.”

  “You lied.”

  “I was lonely. I wanted company. I promise you, at the time, that was all I was after.”

  “But something changed?”

  He goes quiet.

  “Did you black out again?”

  He shakes his head. “I did not.”

  “Okay.”

  He searches my face. “Do the details really matter, Amelia? I admit I did it, isn’t that enough?”

  “You know it isn’t, Rex,” I say.

  “The plea deal requires you provide a full account of your offenses,” says Novak, sharply. “So that’s exactly what you’re gonna do.”

  I shoot Novak a frown to quiet him. Rex lifts his eyes to the ceiling and lets out a long, heavy breath.

  Finally, he says, “All right. I’ll tell you. We went to sleep and the next thing I know I’m being shaken awake. It’s Ms. White, hissing in my ear that she’s heard something in the woods. She thinks it’s a bear. The woman is frightened out of her wits and seeing her like that, I don’t know, something came over me…the darkness…I can’t begin to explain it.”

  “Go on.”

  “I took her right then and there.”

  “Took her?”

  “Had sex with her,” says Rex.

  “You raped her.”

  He pauses. “It was without her consent, yes.”

  “What happened next?” I say.

  “She tried to get away. Fought like hell, as a matter of fact. Scratched me nice and deep on the cheek.” He looks at me. “She was a fighter, Amelia.”

  I feel a chill go up my spine. That’s what he had called me.

  “Then you killed her?”

  He nods and flexes his hands. “The same way as before.”

  “By strangulation?”

  He nods again.

  I think of Shelly White’s last moments. I think of Rex’s murderous hands around her neck. Then I think of them around mine, choking the life from me, the vile look of uncontrolled rage in his eyes as he was doing it.

  “I’m not proud of what happened by any stretch. But there it is,” he says. He looks at me and frowns. “Why Amelia, you’ve gone as white as a ghost.”

  I open my mouth to say something but nothing comes out.

  “Are you all right, Ms. Kellaway?” says March, brow wrinkling.

  Somehow I manage to find my voice. “I’m fine.”

  “Maybe we should take five after all,” says Rex.

  I shake my head, annoyed. “Please, everyone—I’m absolutely fine.” I shuffle my notes on the table in front of me. “Please continue, Rex.”

  He stares at me. “If you’re sure, Amelia.”

  “I am.”

  He nods slowly. “All right then, I know you’re a woman who knows her own mind, so I won’t disagree.” He pauses. “Now, where was I?”

  “Number three.”

  “Ah yes, number three. I do believe number three was a woman named Delia Leigh.”

  8

  It’s after nine p.m. by the time we take a seat at the diner across from our motel. The place is nearly empty apart from an off-duty prison guard nursing a steaming mug of coffee and a slice of lemon meringue pie at the counter. A pretty waitress with a shiny auburn ponytail and name tag that says Becky K bounces over to take our order. I expect to see Novak’s usual flirtatious display, something he typically does whenever he encounters an attractive woman, but tonight he’s subdued and doesn’t even raise his eyes from the menu as he orders a Diet Coke and chicken melt on rye. I order a club sandwich, and March opts for a chicken salad with croutons. Once Becky is through taking our orders, the three of us retreat into silence, staring out the window into the wet, black night.

  Novak’s the first to speak, washing his face with his hands. “Jesus, this guy’s a fucking monster.”

  So far Rex has confessed to five rapes and murders, and given us the location of each of their graves. And he’s just getting started.

  I glance at March. I’m worried about her. She looks wrung out. Her near translucent skin seems even paler, if that’s at all possible, and this morning’s youthful zeal has been replaced with a dark haunted look. I know this is her first murder.

  “How are you holding up?” I ask.

  “I’m fine, Ms. Kellaway. I mean, it’s certainly tough to hear, but we’ve got to focus on the good we’re doing.”

  “That may be so but this is just day one and it’s only going to get harder from this point on. No one’s going to think less of you if you need some time out.”

  March nods. “Thank you, Ms. Kellaway, but I’ve got this.”

  Novak stabs the plastic gingham tablecloth with a fork. “March is tougher than you think, Amelia. She may look like a delicate waterstone lily, but don’t be fooled. She once saved my life by tackling an armed offender about to blow my head off. By the way, March, I don’t think I ever thanked you for that.”

  “You’re welcome, sir.”

  We lapse into silence again. My thoughts drift to Angela King, the last victim Rex mentioned today. He could barely remember anything about her. Worse still, Angela hadn’t even been reported missing in the first place. Unlike the others, she was a prostitute with no fixed abode, and with no family and friends to speak of, there was no one to notice her absence. It was only after her body was found in scrubland along an Oregon back road did anyone even realize she’d been missing at all. It was so sad. I couldn’t imagine how a person could become so invisible and forgotten.

  There’s a clatter and I look up to see Becky K arrive with our meals.

  “About time,” says Novak.

  I’m about to scold him for being rude when I see him smiling at Becky K, eyes twinkling. Coloring at the attention, the poor girl places our plates in front of us, then stands back.

  “Can I get you folks anything else?”

  “Your phone number,” says Novak, grinning.

  Becky K goes redder.

  “Ignore him,” I say.

  Becky K glances at Novak with a shy smile and then retreats to safety behind the counter.

  I shake my head. “You’re impossible…bordering on creepy.”

  He shrugs. “I try.”

  I look down at my club sandwich. “I forgot—I’m not supposed to eat ham.”

  “I’ll have it,” says Novak, shoveling his chicken melt into his mouth.

  I pick out the ham and dump it on Novak’s plate, leaving only a few shreds of limp lettuce, a teaspoon’s worth of egg, and a smattering of mayo. But it’s better than nothing, not that I have much of an appetite after today.

  “Do you think he means it?” says March, picking at her salad. “The conversion?”

  Novak rolls his eyes. “March, you can’t be serious.”

  She touches the gold crucifix around her neck. “He seemed sincere.”

  “Don’t be naïve,” says Novak. “It’s a total act.”

  “But what would he get out of pretending?”

  “I don’t know, March, maybe he just likes messing with us. Maybe it’s a control thing. Maybe he wants us to feel sorry for him. But it’s all bullshit, isn’t that right, Amelia?”

  They look at me. I hesitate. I’d rather not be referee in some ideological debate, and I don’t want to offend March, but I think Novak is right.

  “We will probably never understand how Rex Hawkins’s mind works,” I say, channeling Jane Duffy. “But right now, he’s motivated to tell us everything so we should all be thankful for that.”

  “Amen to that,” says Novak, throwing a crust onto his plate. “I’m done here.” He glances at our mostly untouched meals. “If you guys aren’t eating, I say we get the hell out of here.”

  *

  We part ways and agree to meet at reception first thing in the morning. I’m thankful that my room is on the lower floor because hauling myself up a flight of stairs with my half-foot and cane is not something I have the energy for tonight. It’s down to March, I suspect, as she’s the one who booked the accommodations. I make a mental note to thank her for her kindness in the morning.

  My room is clean and tidy, but basic. The gold-fringed bedspread has seen better days and I fold it up and put in on the chair because I don’t want to think about how many bodies must have slept under it over the years.

  I’m just about to take a shower when Ethan calls. I smile when I hear his voice.

  “How’s my favorite baby-momma doing?” he says.

  “Tired.”

  “Tough day?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Can I ask how it went?” he ventures.

  I lower myself on the end of the bed. “Harrowing, actually.”

  “I bet.”

  “He found God.”

  “Oh, did he now?”

  “Apparently. Can we talk about something else? What about you? How was your day?”

  “I found another apartment for us to look at.”

  “Oh, that’s terrific, Ethan.”

  “Views of the Hudson.”

  “Really?”

  “No.”

  “Funny guy.”

  “I do my best. How’s the young’un doing?”

  I glance at my wrist. The monitor went off five times today, the most ever, but I don’t tell Ethan this.

  “Good. No dramas. Baby’s kicking like crazy. Don’t worry, I have no intention of giving birth inside a prison.”

  “Don’t joke,” he says. “Your mom called.”

  “Yeah? What did she want?”

  “About her check-up, remember? You promised you would go with her. Next week.”

  “I completely forgot.”

  “Surprise.”

  “Hey, I’ve been a little busy.”

  “Don’t I know it.”

  “Ethan.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t start.”

  I hear him breathing. “Hey, no starting going on here. Just saying, that’s all.”

  I drop it. “I’m hoping to done with this thing by Friday.”

  “That long?”

  “There’s a lot to cover.”

  We go silent.

  “I should let you go then,” he says. “Get some sleep.”

  “Yeah. Thanks.” I pause. “I love you.”

  “Right back at you.”

  *

  I wake up at 3 a.m. This time the dream is not about Lorna and her teal blue rug. It’s about me and Rex. In the woods. Sitting around a campfire. I blink into the darkness. His voice is rough in my ear.

  “After the first one, Amelia, you never go back.”

  9

  There’s a sprinkle of rain during our short fifteen-minute ride to Aken for day two of the interview. I wonder if the inmates have any idea how beautiful it looks out here, with the majestic firs and birds bouncing on the powerlines with their puffed-out chests. Novak’s hair is still wet from his morning shower. He looks drawn. March does, too. I don’t blame them. I also feel wrung out and exhausted.

 

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