Wind Chime Summer: A Wind Chime Novel Page 24

  What was wrong with everyone?

  Why couldn’t they understand that the world needed order? That it depended on it? That these roles had been established for a reason?

  He stood abruptly and walked to the table where he kept his decanter of scotch. “I didn’t realize how late it had gotten,” he said. “You don’t mind if I have a drink, do you?”

  “No, sir. Of course not.”

  “Would you like one?” he asked.

  “Oh…no, thank you. My husband’s expecting me. I should probably be going soon.”

  “It’s very good scotch,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “A friend of mine brought it back from Scotland. Maybe just a taste?” He smiled. “You know what they say about drinking alone.”

  She laughed. “Okay. You twisted my arm.”

  He dropped a few ice cubes into each of their glasses. “Would you mind grabbing the door for me? The cleaning crew usually comes through here around this time. It can get noisy when they run the vacuum.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  He heard her get up, walk to the door, and made a split-second decision to slip one of the pills into her drink. It wouldn’t carry quite the same level of satisfaction as physically overpowering her. But he might as well practice first—see how the pills worked before he used one on Alicia.

  Carrying both glasses over to the seating area, he flicked his gaze over her body again. It really was a shame that those uniforms were so unflattering. “How does your husband feel about the move?”

  Sergeant Rhee took the glass he handed her, sat down on the sofa again. “He’s a consultant for a defense contractor in Northern Virginia. He’s been working remotely for the past several years, following me from base to base. It’ll be good for both our careers to be in the D.C. area for a while.”

  Interesting, Bradley thought, settling back into his chair. He wondered how her husband felt about being a trailing spouse, letting his wife’s career dictate where they lived. “Has he been supportive of your decision to go back to school? To become a neurosurgeon?”

  She smiled. “He has. He’s been very supportive.”

  Bradley smiled back, lifted his glass. “To your success.”

  “Thank you, sir,” she said, taking a sip.

  Bradley wondered how much of her husband’s support was an act, how much he secretly resented her decision. He would probably be doing them both a favor by putting her in her place.

  “This is good scotch, isn’t it?” Sergeant Rhee asked, holding up her glass and studying the amber-colored liquor.

  “It is,” he said, wondering how long it would take for the pill to kick in. When she took another sip—bigger this time—it occurred to him that he hadn’t really thought through what he was going to do with her afterwards. He had no interest in finding a way to transport a temporarily unconscious woman. And she couldn’t stay in his office all night.

  “You said your friend brought it back from Scotland?” she asked, still looking at the glass.

  Bradley nodded. “He and his wife took a vacation to the Highlands recently. It was an anniversary trip. They’d been planning it for years.”

  “I hear it’s beautiful there,” she said. “Are you married?”

  “No,” he said, forcing a note of wistfulness into his voice. “I came close a couple of times, but my career always got in the way.”

  “I understand,” she said. “The military lifestyle can be tough on families. And you’ve done very well for yourself.”

  Yes, Bradley thought. He had.

  He watched her take another sip and decided that he probably shouldn’t wait for her to finish the entire drink. It might be better to send her on her way while she was still conscious, make sure she’d at least made it to her car first. Whatever happened afterwards wasn’t his problem.

  “Have you found a place to live in D.C. yet?” he asked, making conversation to fill the time.

  “We put an offer on a house in Falls Church yesterday,” she said. “I’ve been told the public school systems in Fairfax County are excellent.”

  “Do you have children?”

  “I do,” she said, smiling. “I have a son.”

  “How old?”

  “Six.”

  “Have you told him about the move?”

  “I have.” She took another sip, swayed a little in her seat. “I know he’ll be sad to leave his friends behind, but he’s still young. Kids are pretty resilient at that age—at least that’s what everyone tells me.”

  Bradley nodded, watching her closely.

  “It’ll be harder when he gets older, though,” she said, slurring her words. “I have friends whose children mope around for months after they move.”

  If she were a good mother, Bradley thought, she’d stay home, help her children adjust to the moves.

  Sergeant Rhee looked back down at her drink, blinked a few times, as if she were having trouble focusing. “Is this scotch…stronger than normal?”

  Bradley’s lips curved. “Are you having trouble holding your liquor, Sergeant?”

  She squeezed her eyes shut, opened them. Disoriented, she tried to set the glass down on the table in front of her, but her perception was off. The bottom cracked against the edge of the table, causing some of the liquor to slosh out.

  She knelt, immediately, and began to mop up the spill on the floor with the sleeve of her uniform. “I’m sorry, sir,” she slurred. “I’m afraid I’m a bit of a lightweight.”

  “Here,” Bradley said, handing her a cloth.

  She took it, finished wiping up the mess, then tried to stand, but she couldn’t quite make it to her feet.

  Bradley rose slowly, offered her a hand.

  She let him help her to her feet, since her own legs wouldn’t cooperate. “Thank you,” she said, offering him a wobbly smile. “I should probably go before I make a fool of myself.”

  “You don’t need to go yet,” he said, drawing her down to the sofa beside him.

  Confused, she looked down at their joined hands. “Sir?”

  “Relax,” he murmured, letting his gaze drop to her mouth.

  She stiffened and tried to move away from him. “I don’t think I should be here anymore.”

  He tightened his grip on her hand. “You haven’t thanked me properly yet.”

  “Th-thanked you…?” she stammered. “For what?”

  “For writing the letter.” He caught the flash of fear in her eyes and fed off it, started to feel things shifting back into place again. “You didn’t honestly think I’d write you a letter of recommendation and not expect anything in return?”

  “Sir,” she said more firmly, struggling to pull her hand free. “I’m going to have to ask you to stop.”

  “Stop what?” He reached for the zipper of her uniform jacket with his free hand and slid it down. “This?”

  She tried to twist away from him. He shoved her down to the cushions so she was pinned beneath him. “Please,” she said, writhing against him. “Stop. I don’t understand what’s happening.”

  “You’re not very bright, are you?” he asked, stripping her jacket off. “Most women aren’t.” His eyes raked over her breasts, the shape of them finally visible beneath the sand-colored T-shirt. “But sometimes you forget that, don’t you? You think you can do anything.” He jerked the hem of her shirt out of her belted fatigue pants. “That’s why I need to put you in your place sometimes. Make sure you know exactly where you belong.”

  “Stop!” she shouted, struggling against him. “Get off me!”

  He yanked her shirt up, over her breasts, and froze when he caught sight of the thin wire taped to her skin. “What the hell?”

  Sergeant Rhee drove her knee up, hard, into his groin as three men wearing military police uniforms stormed into the office. “Hands on your head, where I can see them,” the closest officer shouted. “Now!”

  Wheezing in pain, Bradley covered himself, his eyes darting back to the woman on the sofa. “What th
e hell is this?”

  The woman stood, readjusted her shirt. “I’m not Jackie Rhee. I’m Special Agent Elena Kwan with CID.”

  CID? The Army’s Criminal Investigation Division?

  One of the officers grabbed Bradley, hauled him to his feet. Another seized his hands, cuffed them behind his back.

  “Colonel Bradley Welker,” Elena said, looking straight at him, with clear eyes and perfectly clear speech, “pursuant to Article 120 of the Uniform Code you’re hereby apprehended to face charges for the attempted rape of Jackie Rhee and Alicia Booker. At this time, you are also facing charges for the rape of Isabella Rivera, Lisa Khan, Kendra Williams, Alexa Martinez, Chelsea Howe, Leslie Wright, Talia Turner, Renee Yi, Petra Capoor, Celia Jackson, Karen Hayes, Abigail Ruiz, and Laura Cole.”

  Twenty-One

  Thirteen.

  There’d been thirteen of them.

  Fifteen if you counted Jackie and Alicia.

  Alone in her room, Izzy read the last paragraph of the article Grace had released in the online version of The Washington Tribune as soon as they’d received confirmation from CID that Bradley had been apprehended. Most of the story had been pieced together beforehand. She’d known what it was going to say. But it was different seeing it in black and white—seeing all their names together in one place.

  It had been three weeks since she’d told the rest of the veterans the truth. During that first night alone, they’d found two more potential victims. Grace had insisted on taking over after that. With the full support of her editor, she’d armed herself with a team of research assistants, thrown money in a hundred different directions, and personally flown to interview three of the women who’d been reluctant to speak over the phone.

  As soon as they discovered that all the women Bradley had assaulted were minorities and that each of them had done something, or were attempting to do something, that was traditionally done by a man, they were able to narrow down the pool of women he might potentially target next to only a handful of women currently stationed on the base in North Carolina.

  At that point, Colin had put in a call to the highest-ranking officer in the Army’s Criminal Investigation Division. CID had agreed to prioritize the investigation, and they’d called each of the women in to explain the situation. Following any direct or indirect communications from Bradley, the women were to report to them immediately.

  When Jackie Rhee had reported that Bradley had wanted to see her, CID had set up a sting operation with one of their own agents, banking on the fact that Bradley wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between two similar looking Asian-American women. Elena had only taken a few small sips of the drink, knowing there was a chance it could have been spiked. Her behavior had all been an act.

  Now, between the recording, the date-rape drug they’d found in her drink, and the DNA samples they’d collected from the sofa—which Izzy had no doubt would match at least one of the women who’d been assaulted there—they had enough evidence to guarantee a conviction.

  All fifteen women had agreed to press charges. All fifteen had agreed to come forward publicly. All fifteen had agreed to put their names out there, and accept the stigma of ‘rape victim’ or ‘attempted rape victim,’ because—despite whatever backlash they might receive—they knew that they had nothing to be ashamed of.

  None of them had asked for this. None of them had done anything to deserve it. And it sure as hell hadn’t been any of their faults.

  The only thing they’d done wrong was try to keep the truth to themselves and carry the burden alone. In coming together, and speaking out, they had ensured that Bradley Welker would never hurt anyone ever again.

  At the knock on her door, Izzy glanced up.

  Kade stood in the hallway, holding a tablet displaying the same article she’d been reading on her laptop. “Hey.”

  “Hey,” she said back.

  “Did you read it?” he asked, gesturing to the computer on the bed in front of her.

  She nodded. “I just finished.”

  “Me too.” He studied her face. “You okay?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “I am.” For the first time in a long time, she was one hundred percent okay.

  “Paul turned on the TV downstairs,” Kade said. “All the major news networks have picked it up. It’s everywhere.”

  Izzy smiled. “Good.”

  She wanted it to be everywhere. She wanted everyone to know the truth. And by the end of the day, they probably would. In addition to telling the stories of all fifteen women, Grace had managed to include quotes from three senators and two members of congress—all of whom had been pushing for years to pass legislation that would make it safer for women to report sexual assaults in the military.

  Bradley’s court-martial was sure to become a highly politicized event. The media attention wasn’t going to die down anytime soon.

  “I forwarded the article to my wife,” Kade said. “I told her that I knew you. That you were here, in this program. That you were the one who convinced me to send the flowers—and keep sending them, even after she rejected the first few.”

  Izzy closed the top of her computer, pushed it away from her. “You would have figured it out for yourself eventually.”

  “I’m not sure I would have,” Kade said. “She’s going to want to meet you.”

  Letting her feet drop to the floor, Izzy stood. “I’d like to meet her, too.”

  Kade held out his hand. “Maybe we should take her to that old house, show her the punching bag where it all started.”

  Izzy laughed. “I think we definitely should. She might want to take a few swings at it herself—pretend that it’s you.”

  Kade smiled, but his expression sobered when she put her hand in his. “You know who you are now, right? You’re never going to let anyone take that away from you again?”

  Izzy nodded. Yeah, she knew who she was. She’d just forgotten for a little while.

  “Good,” he said, giving her hand a squeeze before tugging her out of her room for the last time. “Let’s go celebrate.”

  Hailey met them at the bottom of the steps. “They got him,” she said, drawing Izzy into a fierce one-armed hug. “Thank God.”

  “I hope he spends the rest of his life behind bars,” Paul said when Hailey pulled back.

  The four of them walked into the living room, where a small crowd had gathered in front of the TV.

  “This is wild,” Zach said, his eyes glued to the screen.

  “I can’t believe how fast they picked it up,” Jeff said, widening the circle to make room for her.

  Izzy took a step closer, saw a picture of Bradley’s face flash up on the screen, and stopped walking.

  Paul put a hand on her shoulder. “Do you want us to turn it off?”

  A few others glanced back and Wesley even picked up the remote, expecting her to say yes, but Izzy could tell from their expressions that they didn’t want her to. This was a big story. Everyone here had played a part in it. They probably felt like heroes right now. And they were—to her anyway. She didn’t want to take that away from them. “No,” she said. “It’s fine.”

  “Are you sure?” Wesley asked, lowering the remote.

  She nodded and looked at the screen again. Maybe one day, after enough time had passed, she’d be able to look at Bradley’s face and feel nothing. In the meantime, she was going to have to get used to it. It made it a little easier knowing that the rest of the world would see him for who he really was now.

  Hailey handed her a beer. Izzy twisted the top off and took a sip, but it felt strange to be standing around drinking a beer after everything that had happened. She felt like she should be doing something. But…what?

  “Who’s hungry?” Ethan asked, carrying what was left of the pizzas they’d ordered the night before out to the living room.

  Several people took a slice and then sat down to watch the drama unfold on the TV.

  “Do you want one?” Matt asked, holding the cardboard box up
so she could reach inside.

  Izzy looked down at the pizza. She felt ravenous suddenly, like she hadn’t eaten in weeks. But the cold cheese and stale crust seemed so…unappetizing. Shaking her head, she looked at the kitchen—that big beautiful kitchen—and felt something stir deep inside her.

  A woman’s place is in the kitchen.

  No, Izzy thought. A woman’s place was wherever she wanted it to be. If she happened to choose to spend most of her time in the kitchen, then that was her choice. Not because some man thought that was where she belonged. Or that she couldn’t do any better.

  Fishing her phone out of her pocket, she scrolled through her list of contacts for Della’s number. Della had told her a few weeks ago that if she was ever ready to cook again to call her. Not to try to do it alone. That they’d do it together.

  Before she could talk herself out of it, she clicked on Della’s name and typed out a message: ‘Are you home?’

  A few minutes later, Della texted back: ‘No. I’m at the café. Prepping for another catering gig. Swamped!’

  Izzy hesitated, just for a moment, then wrote: ‘Need any help?’

  ‘YES!!!’

  Lowering the phone to her side, Izzy looked out at the yard. It was late, but she probably had time to get to the café before dark if she left right now. Feeling a tremor of excitement, she placed her beer back in the fridge and walked over to Paul, who was sitting on the barstool farthest away from the TV.

  “I need to go to the café,” she said.

  He looked up at her, surprised. “Why? What’s up?”

  “Nothing.” She wasn’t ready to say the words out loud yet. She was afraid if she did, she might chicken out. “I just…need to go.”

  He started to stand. “Do you want someone to drive you?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “I’ll bike. Annie can give me a ride back later.” Looking around at the rest of the veterans, she bit her lip. She didn’t want to seem ungrateful, or like she was abandoning them. She just didn’t want to make a big deal about the fact that she was leaving. “I just…”

  Paul nodded. “Got it.”

  Izzy let out a breath.