Page 13 of These Cold Strangers

I am consumed by him. I am lost in a sea of rewind. I play the video of his selfless act over and over. I mentally revisit his revelations in the basement. His hands on my body, giving me pleasure. Would he have let me leave in the morning? Or was our tryst only the beginning?

My therapist encourages me to stop re-creating the scenario. The outcome is the outcome. Nothing will change what happened. Nothing will change a killer’s actions a decade ago, when a young girl who lost everything was stupid enough—lucky enough?—to escape her fate. Now, twice. Am I like my sweet, soft Siamese, blessed with nine lives?

The truth of it is, I will never know why he wanted my family dead. Why he killed all those women. Surely this was something in his blood, some darkness that would have manifested itself regardless. My father—my family—was simply a situation. Todd would have found his catalyst; of this I am certain.

I wonder what plans he had for me that he never fulfilled. Why he let me live in the first place. Why he didn’t drag me to the basement on my initial visit, when he knew—heknew—I was aware of his secret. He would have come for me eventually, I think. He said so. “I looked up your address and everything.”

I wonder about the cold stranger he helped. Why he stopped. Such a strange action for him to take on that freezing winter day. For a man who hated, a man who hurt, a man who destroyed, to help a fellow human defies logic. Why did he decide to be selfless? What went through his head? Why did he act the hero when no one else would?

These thoughts consume me. I am haunted by the ghost of a boy who killed a family. A man who grew up to loathewomen and punish them in his basement. He is part of my every waking thought and my darkest dreams.

I’m afraid of what I’m thinking, afraid of what I might find if I look deeper. But I can’t help myself. As I watch the video for the thousandth time, the questions arise again.

Why was Todd in DC that day? On that particular street? At that particular moment? Was it fate that he was discovered by the very person whose life he’d ruined all those years earlier? A chance, a coincidence, a selfless act that became his downfall?

Or could it be something else?

A connection. There has to be a connection. I must know. I am compelled to act.

The day Robert Clark died, he was on his way home from a visit to the gallery that showed his work. I talked to the gallery owner, Jonathan Birdsong, when I did the first story. I call him again and ask to meet. He agrees, and thirty minutes later, I breeze through his door. He is young, in his thirties, with a shock of brown hair, one eye golden, one eye green. He is a work of art himself, and I’m surprised I hadn’t noticed before.

“I’m happy to see you again,” Jonathan says, smiling. “The stories you’ve written ... my gallery is famous now. Anything you need, I am at your service.”

He’s flirting. It’s going to be a long time before I feel the urge to be intimate with anyone, but it’s nice to be appreciated.

“The day Robert Clark came to see you, was he upset at all? Did you talk about what he’d done that day?”

His brow furrows, and those mismatched eyes go distant.

“Now that you mention it, there was something. He’d had a disagreement at the coffee shop down the street. He laughed about it. Apparently, a man was quite rude to the barista, andRobert was, ‘regrettably,’ as he said, ‘rude back.’ Said it made him worry about our future, that people could be so harsh over such a silly thing, how one’s coffee is prepared. I thought it was interesting that he’d fought with a stranger on the last day of his life, and then a stranger almost saved him. I haven’t thought of it since.”

And there it is.

My heartbeat ticks up. “Can I ask a crazy question? Any chance you have the security video from that day?”

“I do. The police asked me not to erase the videos, they’re on my laptop. Why? What are you looking for?”

“I’m not sure.” But I am. I know what I’m going to find. And I do.

Todd Preis was in the gallery that day.

When the photographer left, Todd followed him out the door.

What happened between the gallery and the spot where Robert Clark fell, we won’t ever know. We only caught the end of the play. A world in need of something good became obsessed with what we thought was the selfless act of a hero.

Were we wrong?

Did we see a hero happen upon a stranger in distress and try to give him life?

Or did a killer hunt down a man who’d upset him and make sure he was dead?

ECHOES

Marchburg, Virginia

2013

Colonel Blake’s office is meant to be aspirational. Three walls of floor-to-ceiling bookcases in dark walnut, a fireplace with a marble surround, and a substantial mantel. An American flag, a wall of photos, candid and formal alike. An antique desk that looks like it belongs in the White House, two wing chairs opposite. It screamsman of importance. Of honor, of value. And the man himself, sitting behind the desk, is imposing, scary even.

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