Everything She Feared, page 21
Locating them was difficult, Magda explained, because often she’d only seen the sites at night. She had been so terrified that now she couldn’t remember the exact locations. After nearly a dozen attempts, it became evident that she either could not, or would not, locate the remains of their victims. Frustrated, investigators went to Herman Vryker’s relatives, friends, and trucking and business associates, thinking he may have confided in someone. It was another futile effort to locate the remains.
The state appealed to the court to declare its deal with Magda invalid and subject her to a harsher sentence. Magda’s attorney, Katherine Marie Powell, argued that even though no remains had been located, Magda had made every effort to fulfill her end of the agreement. Powell cited precedents. Magda ultimately won. The deal could not be changed. Magda would be released in twenty years, with no reporting conditions or terms.
A free woman at age forty-four.
Ryan was seething at his desk.
He went back to the part in Magda’s video where she was smirking at the camera, as if to say she’d won.
No, I can’t let you win!
He stared at Magda.
“You know!” His fist came down on the table. “You know where they are because you put them in the ground!”
46
Bothell, Washington
Marjorie Cole looked through the window of her room at the Silverbrook Hills Senior Living Home.
“Hi, Mrs. Cole.” Bella Spencer stood at her open door. Marjorie kept it open most times. The hall traffic and occasional visitor eased the lonely days. Bella had her laundered towels. “I’ll set these on the counter for you.”
“Thank you, Bella,” Marjorie said. “Is Hetta here today?”
“I think she’s out at a meeting. Enjoy her absence while you can.”
“I don’t know why that woman is so, so, I don’t know what.”
“God wires us all differently.” Bella smiled. “I’ll check back with you later, dear.”
Marjorie gave a little wave and turned back to the window.
Her thoughts carried her from her wheelchair beyond the surrounding woodland, back years, back to a time when the highway rushed under her. She was sitting next to George, her husband, in their truck, her heart nearly bursting as they departed Montana.
She was sad to leave their friends and the life she and George had had in Great Falls. But a new life awaited them in Seattle where George had accepted a fantastic job offer. It was exciting, but Marjorie was anxious.
Tenderly she stroked their daughter Sara’s hair. Sara was seated between them. Watching her, Marjorie was convincing herself that the move would be good for all of them.
It would be a new beginning.
Sara flipped through the pages of a Dr. Seuss book, Horton Hears a Who! She’d been in their lives for more than a year at that point. She had come to them with a terrible history; and being her new parents came with challenges, but it didn’t matter. Marjorie and George were prepared to meet them.
Sara was their answered prayer and they loved her unconditionally.
Their love had arisen out of the painful realization that they could never have children biologically. The wait on adoption lists for a child was unbearable, and surrogacy was too expensive for them. Devastated, they had abandoned their hope for a child of any age when the stars aligned.
Marjorie had a close friend at their church. That friend’s uncle was a detective. He’d mentioned a gut-wrenching complex situation involving a little girl who needed new parents.
Calls were made to the little girl’s caseworker at Child and Family Services to establish Marjorie and George as a prospective adoptive family. Procedure was followed, forms were completed, and assessments and evaluations were conducted.
Marjorie and George received a summary of the girl’s tragic story from the detective, and it gave them pause. Then, at home in the evenings, George and Marjorie digested news reports they’d photocopied at the library. Reading them, Marjorie gasped at times. And early in the process the caseworker, having advised them of confidentiality laws, relayed details of the girl’s life that were unknown to the public. She stressed difficulties they could face as her parents.
Marjorie wept for the little girl.
“With this knowledge,” the caseworker had said, “would you like to withdraw your application? Or do you still wish to be considered?”
That afternoon, weighing their lives, George took Marjorie’s hand. “I see the answer in your eyes,” he said. “Heaven moves in ways we can’t understand. That little girl needs us.”
“And we need her,” Marjorie said.
In time Marjorie and George were informed they’d been selected to become the girl’s adoptive parents. They were overjoyed as the next steps in the process were set in motion, and they met with experts who advised them on what lay ahead.
“The child has fragmented memories of her early years,” one psychologist said. “And she’ll question you about her birth parents.”
The psychologist removed her glasses and continued.
“Her history and the truth about her birth parents belongs to her and she will need to know. That truth should come from you, her adoptive parents, to establish trust.”
The psychologist warned about the harm of lying or not telling her, guiding them on what, when and how to tell her.
“It’ll take time, you’ll need to lay the groundwork and plant seeds of truth at the appropriate ages of her life.”
Marjorie and George listened carefully as the psychologist, and later other officials, warned them about a crucial fact.
“As you know, the girl’s father is deceased and her mother incarcerated,” one official said. “The criminal court has ruled that there must never be contact of any kind between the girl and her biological mother, deeming it a risk to the girl’s safety. Therefore, all identities, all private information about the girl and her adoptive family, have been sealed and kept confidential, to protect the girl and her adoptive parents.”
The placement process went well, and Marjorie and George’s attorney helped with finalizing the adoption and ensuring the little girl was given a new legal name: Sara Dawn Cole. Marjorie had always loved the name Sara, and Dawn was chosen as a middle name to signify a new start. The psychologists had suggested they start calling the girl by the name Sara casually, as a nickname. That way it would naturally eclipse, and ultimately replace, the name her birth mother had given her in another severing with her past.
But, as predicted, as soon as Sara started living with Marjorie and George, she asked questions.
“Why aren’t I living with my mom and my dad? What happened to my mom and my dad?”
Guided by the experts, Marjorie and George began filling in the blanks in Sara’s life.
“Your mom and dad had big, grown-up problems,” Marjorie said.
“What kind of problems?”
“Well, it’s hard to understand, but their problems were so serious they started hurting other people.”
When they first told her that, Sara looked at the scar on her wrist, as if remembering, and it took everything Marjorie had to hold herself together to help her child.
“Sara, their problems had nothing to do with you,” Marjorie said. “It had to do with their problems.”
“But how come you’re my mom now?”
“Well, a judge—that’s the person who can make things official, like a law or rule—decided it was best for everyone to put your mom and dad in a place where they couldn’t hurt anybody anymore. And, to make sure you were safe, a judge decided it would be best if you lived with us because we wanted to have you in our family more than anything, and because we love you very much.”
“And you don’t hurt people?”
“No, we don’t hurt people,” George said. “We like to help people.”
“But will I ever see my mom and my dad again?”
“Honey, the judge said with their problems, they can’t take care of you. That the best way to keep you safe is for you to not see them.”
Sara thought for a while, withdrawing, just as she was during their drive from Montana to Seattle, looking from her book, up at the highway, the forests rising around them.
Until the episode.
A few miles after stopping for gas and topping off the oil, a rattling sounded from the truck’s motor. “I bet the oil cap’s loose,” George said, pulling over and getting out. The moment he raised the hood, Sara’s head snapped up, her eyes widened. Twisting in her seat she looked behind her repeatedly. When a car stopped and a man offered to help, Sara’s breathing quickened, her face flushed with alarm.
“It’s happening! It’s happening again!”
George thanked the driver, declining his offer. The man waved and drove off, but Sara exploded in sobs as Marjorie took her into her arms, shushing and calming her. Having tightened the cap and dropped the hood, George got into the truck. Taking in the situation, his eyes met Marjorie’s. As she rocked Sara, they silently acknowledged that their daughter’s trauma was bubbling under the surface.
They continued driving.
Life went well for them in Seattle.
The electrical contracting company that hired George helped him upgrade his certification and license to earn more. They found their dream home in a pretty neighborhood in North Seattle. Marjorie got a job as an office administrator for an accounting firm. Marjorie and George volunteered at shelters and missions. Sara helped, learning and applying their morals and beliefs to always think of others.
But given Sara’s history, they continually told her to never talk to, or go anywhere alone with, strangers “no matter how nice they seem, no matter what they say.” It was a caution they underscored. From time to time, Sara would ask more questions about her past. Often they had no answer, or didn’t think she was ready for one.
“It’s complicated,” Marjorie would say. “I’ll explain when you’re older.”
Early on they frequently told Sara that it was very important she always remember: “Not everybody’s family is like our family. There are things we must always, always, keep private in our family. Remember that.”
One Sunday afternoon they’d taken Sara to a Seahawks football game, seating her between them. During a lull in the play, she asked questions.
“You said a judge put my mom and dad in a place so they won’t hurt people. Is that place jail?”
George traded a look with Marjorie, then leaned closer to Sara’s ear and said, “Yes, prison.”
“How long will the judge make them stay there?”
More looks were exchanged, then Marjorie said, “Honey, we can talk about it later in the truck.”
Driving home after the game Marjorie said, “Your mom will stay in prison a long, long time.”
“What about my dad?”
“Well, you see, his problems were too much for him to handle and he died in prison not long after he was put there.”
“Oh.”
Absorbing the information, Sara stared ahead. The traffic and buildings flowed by, as did the years.
In keeping with the advice of experts who’d studied the research, Marjorie and George gradually finished telling Sara all about her birth parents by the time Sara was ten years old. Psychologists had told them that Sara’s history should be established before adolescence, because by then she’d be going through enough, trying to figure out who she was.
During those years, they reinforced the fact their family was unlike others.
“There are things we don’t ever discuss outside our home,” Marjorie said. “No one knows who your birth parents are, but people who are angry at what they did will want to know. They might be angry at you, or us, even though what your parents did has nothing to do with you at all. And if we keep things private, no one will ever know about the past.”
Marjorie and George prayed that Sara understood as she continued asking questions.
“When my mom comes out of prison, will she hurt people?”
“Nobody knows that.”
“When I grow up, will I hurt people like they did?”
Marjorie looked at her; it was the first time Sara had ever asked that question.
“Do you ever think about hurting anyone?”
“No,” Sara said, “never, because it’s wrong.”
Marjorie took Sara into her arms, holding her.
“No,” she said. “You will never hurt anyone.”
Marjorie believed it with every fiber of her soul.
Still, while Sara was growing up, Marjorie had been plagued with dread about her. Because of the disturbing history of Sara’s biological parents, deep down Marjorie always worried that Sara would inherit their traits.
But she didn’t.
When George was dying, he told Marjorie that Sara was a blessing in their lives, and it was true.
But now, after all these years, Marjorie’s faith was shaken.
For in a dark corner of her heart, she still held secrets.
Yes, Sara was a good person. And Nathaniel, God rest his soul, was a good person.
But Katie.
At first, after what happened to the little boy, Marjorie believed Katie had nothing to do with it. But now? Now with the girl on the cliff.
I fear the worst. I fear it because I lied to Sara. I haven’t told her everything about her birth mother.
Marjorie drew her hands to her face. She sat that way until a shadow fell over her. Then she felt someone touch her shoulder.
“Mrs. Cole, are you okay?”
Hetta Boden had lowered herself beside the chair, concern in her face as she studied Marjorie.
“May I get someone, or get you some water?”
“No, thank you.” Marjorie politely waved off the offer and found her composure. “I was just lost in my memories.”
47
Seattle, Washington
The steps creaked as Sara climbed them to the attic, guided by the weak light spilling up the narrow stairway from below.
Anxiety had tormented her for days before she overcame it and found the will to come up here—uncertain of what she would awaken.
At the top, she opened the attic door and tried the light switch. It didn’t work. She used the flashlight on her phone and glanced around. Dust mites swirled above boxes of old clothes, Christmas decorations and cartons of items jettisoned from their lives.
Sitting on a wooden chest filled with old blankets, Sara slid a carton closer and pulled out a photo album. Her mom had one or two albums at Silverbrook Hills, but most of them were here.
The laminated pages crackled as Sara looked through the images of her family taken over the years, coming to happy times with Nathaniel. Sara had her favorites of Nathaniel downstairs in her room, and on her phone. But there were more family pictures here.
She traced her fingers over Nathaniel’s face, smiling at her from his motorcycle, so handsome. Here he was at his shop. There he was helping at the shelter. Here he was holding Katie when she was born. Here he was with Katie on his shoulders, looking up at her; she was laughing down at him.
Sara smiled back at the photos of her mom and dad, Christmases, birthdays.
Closing the album, she glanced at a cardboard box, one she rarely opened.
Because I know what’s there, waiting for me. The truth.
It contained old things: a lamp, bookends and candlestick holders. But under them, hidden, was a box.
She opened it to faded clippings, photocopies and printouts of old newspaper reports. Sara scanned the headlines:
Survivor’s account unearths link to troubling case
FBI to lead probe of several disappearances across several states
Husband and wife tied to multiple slayings
Hearts of Darkness: Murder Suspect’s Wife Seeks Deal
Sara couldn’t go any further.
Why didn’t I get rid of all this stuff long ago?
She put the box away, unable to silence the shrieks from the recesses of her mind, pulling her back...the rain...the pain...the screaming, kicking...clawing...bleeding...the thudding...the digging...the blood...
She shook her head to drive the images from her.
I know who I am! I’m not them! I’m not them!
Sara fought a great sob.
But Katie?
The drawing, Anna, and there was the boy, and how Katie had said at the time: “It’s sad what happened to him.” But it was the way Katie had said it. Like she didn’t mean it.
Oh, God! What do I do? Please tell me what to do!
48
Issaquah, Washington
They found Gilbert Croft’s house in a terraced section of the neighborhood known as Montreux, on the slope of Cougar Mountain.
A blue Toyota Camry stood in the driveway. Its plate matched the plate of the Camry recorded at Sparrow Song Park, a thirty-minute drive away.
Pierce and Benton went to the door and rang the bell.
No one answered.
Pierce rang it again.
Nothing.
She checked the time.
Benton nodded to the pathway leading around the house. Following it to the backyard, they saw an older man working at a flower bed, next to a wheelbarrow with precast gray-white bricks. Grunting, he hefted one and, with the slowness of age, placed it on the grass.
“Mr. Croft?” Pierce said.
He turned. “Yes.”
“Detectives Kim Pierce and Carl Benton, King County Sheriff’s Office.”
“Oh, yes.” He brushed his brow. “Let’s go inside.”
Croft’s living room had a cultured stone fireplace, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and comfortable chairs.
“Can I get you anything? Coffee?”
“No, thank you,” Benton said.
