When I first started therapy and was trying to avoid talking about my childhood you said, “To build up a future you have to know the past.” Then you told me it was a quote from Otto Frank, Anne Frank’s father, and that you’d toured her house in Amsterdam. I remember sitting here — you’d gone to get us a coffee — looking around at the photos on your wall, the art you brought back from your trips, the carvings and statues you collected, the books you wrote, thinking you were the coolest woman I knew.
I’d never met anyone like you before, the way you dressed, all artsy elegance, sort of a bohemian intellectual, a sweater shawl tossed over your shoulders, your hair cut in all those crazy chunks of gray, like you not only embraced your age — you were proud of it. The way you pulled your glasses off when you leaned in to ask me something, your finger tapping on your crooked mug — which you made in pottery class because you were bored and you told me it was important to never stop learning. I studied every move, drank it all in, and thought, This is a woman who isn’t afraid of anything. This is who I want to be.
That’s why I was so surprised when you told me you were also from a dysfunctional family and that your father had been an alcoholic. What I admired most was that you didn’t have any resentment or anger — you’d dealt with your crap and moved on. You’d built up a future. I left here feeling so hopeful that day, like anything was possible. But then later I thought about what you said— about knowing your past — and it hit me that I’d never be able to build a real future because I didn’t know my real past. It was like building a house on no foundation. It might stay up for a while but eventually it would start sinking.
When I got home Moose snorted and jumped all over me like I’d been gone a million years. After I let him out for a pee — poor guy only made it a foot out the door — I thought about calling the cops to report the prank call but decided to wait and talk things over with Evan. When I scrolled through the call display to see if he’d phoned while I was out, I noticed two private numbers. I checked my voice mail and they were from newspapers.
For the next hour I paced around the house with the cordless gripped in my hand, praying Evan would call soon. The phone rang in my hand once, making me jump, but it was just another reporter. After a while I made myself call Dad and tell him what I found online and about the calls.
He said, “Don’t answer the phone if you don’t know the number. If someone asks about the Campsite Killer, deny everything. You were adopted but your birth mother wasn’t Karen Christianson.”
“You think I should lie?”
“Damn right. I’ll tell Melanie and Lauren the same. And if any punk calls again, just hang up.”
“Should I go to the police?”
“They can’t do anything. I’ll deal with this. Send me the links.”
“Most of them are just forums.”
“Send them.”
I did as he said, then tortured myself by reading the comments again. There were ten new ones, each sicker than the last. I checked the other Web sites and the comments were just as bad. It shocked me that people could be so mean about someone they didn’t know — and it terrified me that they knew my name. I wanted to monitor the sites, wanted to defend myself and Julia, but it was time to go meet with Ally’s teacher.
It wasn’t as bad as I thought. Turns out the other little girl had been harassing Ally for a while — messing up her desk, taking paints while Ally was still using them — and Ally finally lost it. Of course, I said I’d explain to her that pushing wasn’t the way to deal with disagreements and she should tell an adult if she’s having problems, but I’d have said anything to get out of there. What Ally did was wrong, and I did talk to her about it, but frankly it didn’t seem like such a big deal compared to the fact that I’d just ruined Julia’s life, not to mention my own. Then I dragged my whole family into it. It was the last one that hurt the most.
The phone finally rang at eight. As soon as I saw Evan’s cell number I answered in a rush, “We have to talk.”
“What’s going on?”
“That Web site — it spread somehow, maybe they didn’t do a Google sweep. But now it’s on other blogs. It’s mostly about Julia, but there are all these disgusting comments — some of them mention my name. Then this teenager called and said he’s my father. Reporters are calling, but I’m not answering, and Dad said—” “Sara, slow down — I can’t understand half of what you’re saying.” I took a deep breath and began again. At the end Evan was silent for a minute, then said, “Have you called the cops?”
“Dad said they can’t do anything.”
“You should still tell them what’s going on.”
“I don’t know … he said he’ll deal with it.” The last thing I wanted was Dad pissed at me for going against him.
“So let him, but get something on record.”
“He’s right, though. They can’t do anything about someone playing a joke.”
“You asked for my advice. Call the police in the morning — and don’t comment on any of these blogs.”
“Okay, okay.”
After I hung up the phone, I climbed into bed and watched late-night TV until I fell into a restless sleep. Early the next morning the phone rang. Without looking at the call display I reached over and picked it up.
“Hello?”
A male voice said, “Good morning. I understand you restore furniture?”
I sat up. “I do. What can I help you with?”
“I have a few pieces, a table, some chairs. I don’t think they’re worth much, but they were my mother’s and I’d like to give them to my daughter.”
“Value isn’t always what you can sell something for — it’s what it means to you.”
“This table means a lot. I spent most of my time there — I like food.” He laughed and I laughed back.
“Kitchen tables tell the story of a family. Sometimes people just want me to clean them up a little but preserve marks their children made, things like that.”
“How much do you usually charge?”
“Why don’t I have a look and give you an estimate.” I climbed out of bed and threw on a robe as I headed to my office for a pen. “I can come to your house, or a lot of my clients just e-mail me photos.”
“You go to strangers’ homes?”
I paused in my hallway.
He said, “Do you go alone?”
Okay, there was no way I was taking this job. My voice flattened, turning cold. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”
He was silent for a moment, then said, “I’m your father.”
That explained it, just another jerk playing a prank.
“Who is this?”
“I told you — your father.”
“I have a father and I don’t appreciate—”
“He’s not your father.” The voice turned bitter. “I wouldn’t have given my kid away.” He paused and I heard traffic in the background. I almost hung up, but I was too mad.
“I don’t know what kind of sick joke you’re playing—”
“It’s not a joke. I saw Karen’s photo and recognized her. She was my third one.”
“Everyone knows Karen was his third victim.”
“But I still have her earrings.”
My stomach climbed into my throat. What kind of person pretends to be a murderer?
“Do you think this is funny? Calling someone and trying to scare them? Is this how you get your kicks?”
“I’m not trying to scare you.”
“Then what do you want?”
“To get to know you.”
I hung up. The phone rang back right away. The call display showed a BC area code, but I didn’t recognize the prefix. Finally the ringing stopped, only to start up again. My hands shook as I unplugged the phone.
I raced down the hallway, woke Ally up, told her to get ready for school, and jumped into the shower. Out in minutes, I made her some peanut butter and toast while she brushed her teeth, slapped her lunch together while she ate, then tore out of the house.
When I walked into the police station two older men in plainclothes were manning the front desk. As I headed toward them a policewoman came through the door behind the counter and picked up a file off a desk. I guessed her to be First Nations, with high cheekbones, coffee-colored skin, big brown eyes, and thick straight dark hair pulled back in a tight bun.
At the counter I said, “I want to talk to someone about some calls I’m getting.”
One of the men said, “What kind of calls?”
The policewoman said, “I’ll take it,” then led me to a door with a metal plate reading “Interview Room” and motioned me in. It was bare except for a long table and two hard plastic chairs. On the table was a pad of paper, a phone book, and a phone.
She settled in a chair and leaned far back. Now that she was facing me I saw her name badge: “S. Taylor.”
“How can I help you?”
It occurred to me that what I was about to say was going to sound crazy as all get-out. I was just going to have to give her the facts and hope she believed me.
“My name’s Sara Gallagher. I’m adopted and I recently found my biological mother in Victoria. Then I hired a private investigator and he found out she’s Karen Christianson.…”
She stared at me blankly.
“You know, the Campsite Killer’s only living victim?”
She sat up straight.
“The private investigator thinks the Campsite Killer’s probably my father. Then the Web site Nanaimo News for Now somehow got hold of the information and it spread all over the Internet. Yesterday I got a prank call from teenagers pretending to be my father. Then this morning a man called, also saying he was my father. But this time he said he had her earrings.” “Did you recognize his voice?”
I shook my head.
“What about the phone number?”
“He called from a 250 area code, but the prefix was 374 or 376, something like that. I wrote everything down but I forgot the paper and—”
“Did he tell you why he was calling?”
“He said he wanted to get to know me better.” I made a face. “I know it’s probably just a joke, but I have a daughter, and—”
“Has your birth mother confirmed you were conceived in the process of a sexual assault?”
“Not in so many words, but yeah.”
“I’d like to record your statement.”
“Oh, okay. Sure.”
She stood up. “I’ll be back in a moment.”
While I waited for her I glanced around the interview room and fiddled with my cell phone.
The door whipped open. She sat down, set a small recorder on the table in front of me, and pulled her chair close. She said her name, my name, and the date, then asked me to repeat my full name and address. My mouth went dry and my face felt hot.
“In your own words, I’d like you to tell me why you think the Campsite Killer is your biological father and the details of the phone calls you received recently.” Her serious tone made me even more nervous and my heart sped up.
She said, “Go ahead.”
I did the best I could, but I occasionally meandered off course and she brought me back with a quick “And what did he say next?” She even wanted to know Julia’s address and any information I had on her. I felt weird giving it, considering I basically got the information by stalking her. I also told her we’d been trying to reach the PI and that he’s a former cop. Her neutral expression never changed.
When we were done I said, “So what happens now?”
“We’ll look into this.”
“But you don’t think it’s actually the Campsite Killer calling?”
“When we have more information we’ll let you know. Someone will be in touch soon.”
“What if he calls again? Should I change my number?”
“Do you have call display and voice mail?”
“Yeah, but I have a business, and—”
“Don’t answer any calls from unfamiliar numbers and let it go to voice mail. Make note of the number and time, then let us know ASAP.” She handed me her business card, then moved to stand by the door.
In a daze, I followed her down the hallway.
To her back I said, “But do you think it’s just someone trying to scare me? And you have to take it seriously because of the Campsite Killer connection?”
She glanced over her shoulder. “I can’t really say until we look into it, but be careful. And thanks for coming in. If you have any questions give me a call.”
Out in the parking lot, I sat in the Cherokee and stared at the business card in my hand. My body was shivering. I’d hoped the police would tell me I had nothing to worry about, but Constable Taylor had passed up every opportunity to reassure me. Now I was terrified it really was the Campsite Killer calling.
Were the police going to talk to Julia? How long was it going to take before they got in touch with me? How was I going to make it through another couple of days not knowing? I thought about what the man had said about Karen’s earrings. Wasn’t that the quickest way to prove him a liar? But if I called Julia, she’d just hang up before I could ask her anything.
I glanced at the clock. It was only nine in the morning — time enough to get down to Victoria and still be back to pick Ally up from school.
Because it was Friday and not yet lunchtime I thought Julia might be at the university, so I headed straight to the campus. I spent the entire drive rehearsing ways to tell her what was going on, but first I had to actually get her to talk to me. I hoped showing up at her workplace would mean she couldn’t slam the door in my face. But when I called her office from a pay phone, an assistant told me she didn’t have any classes that day and she didn’t know when she’d be back.
I was going to have to go to her house.
As I drove down Dallas Road, I started to second-guess the brilliance of my plan. I was crazy. Julia was going to flip at the sight of me. I should just leave it to the police. But still I found myself parked on the road in front of Julia’s house, staring at her front door.
I had to let her know what was going on. She was the only person who knew about the earrings. I had a right to ask — the safety of my family depended on it. Her safety depended on it.
When I knocked on her door my heart kicked into high gear and my throat tightened. She didn’t answer, but her car was in the driveway. Had she seen me walk up to the house? What should I say if Katharine’s home? This was a bad idea. Then I heard voices from the back of the house.
As I came around the corner I saw Julia and an older man standing by a basement window at the far end of the house. The man was carrying a clipboard and Julia was pointing at the window, her face pale and strained. I stopped, wondering if I should leave. I picked up part of their conversation, something about steel bars. Now I remembered seeing a van for a security company on the street. The man said something as he shook Julia’s hand, but she seemed distracted. She was still staring at the window as he walked past me with a nod. I waited until he was down the driveway, then cleared my throat. Her head snapped in my direction.
“Hi, I need to talk to—”
“That’s it. I’m calling the police.” She stalked toward a back deck.
“That’s why I’m here — it’s about the police.”
That stopped her. She turned around.
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve been getting calls from newspapers and—”
“What do you think my life is like?” Her face was flushed and angry. “I had to cancel classes today because reporters are harassing my students and waiting in the parking lot. My home number and address are unlisted, but it won’t take them long to get that information. Or did you already tell them that too?” “I never—”
“Are you trying to make money off this? Is that what you’re here for?” She started to pace in short jerky directions like she wanted to run but didn’t know where to go.
“I didn’t have anything to do with it getting out. That’s the last thing I wanted. I only told a private investigator, and then my sister because I was upset, but I don’t know how it got leaked.”
“You hired a private investigator.” She shook her head and squeezed her eyes closed. When she opened them, they looked desperate.
“What do you want?”
“I don’t want anything.” But it wasn’t true. And now she’d never give me what I really wanted.
“Do you know how long it took for me to build a life here?” she said. “You’ve ruined everything.”
Her words crashed into me and I almost stepped back from the blow. She was right, I had ruined everything. And it was about to get worse. The next part would terrify her even more, but it had to be said. I braced myself.
“I came here today because I thought you should know a man called me this morning. He said … he said he’s my real father. He recognized your photo and he said he had your earrings.”
She was completely still, the only movement her pupils dilating. Then she began to shake as tears leaked from the corners of her eyes.
“They were a gift from my parents. Pearls. Pink ones with silver leaf backings, for my graduation.” Her voice caught and she swallowed hard. “I was worried about wearing them camping, but my mother said beautiful things were to be enjoyed.” He did take her earrings. I remembered the man’s voice, the way he spoke about his daughter. My blood whooshed in my ears as I stared at her, trying to think of what to say, trying not to think about what this meant.
Finally I found some words. “I’m … I’m sorry he took them.”
Her eyes met mine. “He said thank you.” She looked away again. “The police never revealed to the public that he took my earrings. They told me they’d catch him.” She shook her head. “Then I found out I was pregnant. But I couldn’t kill it. So I changed my name and moved away. I just wanted to forget it ever happened. But every time he murders someone, the police find me. One of them told me I was the lucky one.” She laughed bitterly, then looked back at me.
“I’ve lived in terror for thirty-five years that he’s going to find me. I haven’t slept one night without waking up from a dream that he’s still chasing me.” Her voice quivered. “You found me, he can find me.” For once her expression wasn’t guarded and I could see the raw pain in her eyes. I could see her. Every broken piece. This poor woman had lived in fear for so long — and now she had even more because of me.
I stepped closer. “I’m really—”
“You should go.” Her face had closed down again.
“Okay, sure. Do you want my number?”
She said, “I have it.” The patio doors closed behind her with a solid click.
That night Evan came home and I told him we needed to talk, but we didn’t get a chance until Ally and Moose were in bed and we’d collapsed on the couch. Evan sat with his legs up on the coffee table, and I sat at the opposite end with my arms wrapped around my knees. He was upset about the second call but glad I’d gone straight to the police. When I told him I’d also gone to see Julia he just shook his head. But he really didn’t like hearing about the earrings.
“If he calls again — don’t answer it.”
“That’s what the cops said too.”
“I don’t like that this is happening and I have to leave on Monday. Maybe I should get one of the other guides to take this group.”
“I thought everyone was away.”
He rubbed his jaw. “Frank might be able to do it, but he’s only been out once on his own and it’s a big group. They come back every year.”
Evan had worked for years to build his lodge’s reputation to the point where he was booked every summer. But one bad trip with an inexperienced guide or, worse, an accident, and his business was toast.
“You have to take them.”
“Maybe you should stay at your parents’ or Lauren’s.”
I considered the idea for a moment, then said, “I don’t want to tell Dad about the call yet, not until we know more. He’ll just take over and stress me out. And I don’t want to worry Lauren either. Greg’s at camp, so I wouldn’t be any safer over there. She’s got kids to think about too.” Evan still looked unsure, but he said, “Okay, I’ll put the shotgun under the bed and a baseball bat by the front door. Make sure you lock up every night, and take your cell if you go for a walk—”
“Baby, I’m not stupid. I’m going to be careful until the police figure out what’s going on.”
Evan ran a warm hand up my thigh. “I’m here to protect you tonight.…”
I raised an eyebrow. “Trying to distract me?”
“Maybe.” He smiled.
I shook my head. “I have too much on my mind right now.”
Evan pounced on me, growling into my neck. “Let me help with that.” As he tried to kiss me I moved my face to the side, but he held my head in place by the back of my hair, teasing my mouth with his. My thoughts started to settle and my body began to relax. I focused on the feel of his shoulder muscles flexing under my hand. Of our mouths open, tongues playing. I unzipped his jeans and used my foot to drag them down. We laughed as they caught on his ankles, but he kicked them free. He hooked his hand into my pajama bottoms and peeled them off, giving my ass a quick smack that earned him a fake yelp. I lightly punched his shoulder. We kissed for a few minutes.
Then the phone rang.
Into my neck Evan said, “Leave it.” And I did, but as I nuzzled his ear and grabbed at his butt, my mind was busy. Was it the Campsite Killer? The police? Did Julia call? Evan stopped kissing my collarbone and rested on me for a moment. I could feel his heart beating fast. He leaned up on his elbows and gave me a slow kiss, then said, “Go see who called.” I made denial noises. He gave me a look as he sat up and reached for his pants. “I know it’s killing you.” I gave him a sheepish smile, then dashed to the kitchen.
It was just Lauren, calling to chat about the boys, but for the rest of the weekend we both jumped every time the phone rang. Evan left Monday morning, but not until he lectured me on safety again. That afternoon I got a call from a private number. My body tense, I waited until it went to voice mail. Staff Sergeant Dubois wanted me to call back as soon as possible.
Staff Sergeant Mark Dubois turned out to be extremely tall — at least six-foot-four — and genial, despite his intimidating height and deep voice.
“Hi, Sara. Thanks for coming in.” He sat behind an enormous L-shaped desk and waved me into the seat in front. “Have you received any more strange calls?”
I shook my head. “But I saw my birth mother on Friday and she said the earrings the Campsite Killer took were pearls. They were a grad gift from her mother.”
The sergeant said, “Hmm…,” then clicked his tongue against his teeth. “We’d like to interview you, but this time we’re going to audio-and videotape it. Is that all right?”
“I guess.”
The sergeant led me down the hallway and into another room. This one was friendlier, with an overstuffed sofa, a lamp, and a painting of a seascape on the wall. There was also a camera in the upper corner. I settled at one end of the couch and the sergeant sat at the other, throwing a long arm up to rest on the back.
The questions were basically the same as the policewoman asked on Friday, but his tone was pleasant — conversational — and I opened up more. I even told him about my last visit with Julia and her emotional reaction.
“Good job, Sara,” he said with a smile after I was done. “This is going to be a big help to us.” His face turned serious. “But I’m afraid we need to tap your phone and—”
“So you do think it was him?” I cringed at the desperate tone in my voice.
“We don’t know yet, but the Campsite Killer is a high-priority case and we need to take every lead seriously. Until we can confirm it was just a prank, our first concern is your safety. We’ll have a DVERS installed in your house as soon as possible.” “A what?”
“Domestic Violence Emergency Response System. It’s an alarm system we use when we feel the victim’s at risk.”
I’m a victim now.
“The private investigator you hired is a retired policeman, but we haven’t been able to locate him yet for an interview. We’d prefer you not have any contact with him about this case. In the next couple of days, two members of the Serious Crimes Unit in Vancouver will come over to the island and talk to you.” “Why can’t Nanaimo just deal with it?”
“The Serious Crimes Unit has more members and greater resources. The suspect is potentially responsible for some horrific crimes. If that’s who’s calling you, then obviously we’d like to apprehend him, but we need to make sure we don’t jeopardize you or your family while we’re doing it.” Fear shot down my legs. “Should I send my daughter somewhere?”
“He hasn’t made any direct threats and we try not to separate families, but I suggest you go over some basic safety rules with her. Your husband’s away right now?”
“Fiancé—we’re getting married in September. He already knows about the call, but should I tell my family?”
“It’s very important you not discuss this with anyone — including family — and your fiancé also needs to keep it to himself. We can’t risk a leak to the media and the suspect finding out about the investigation.”
“But what if my family’s in danger too?”
“At this point he hasn’t indicated he wants to harm anyone. If there’s a threat, we’ll take the appropriate measures. Someone will be at your house tomorrow morning to tap your phone, and ADT will wire it for the alarm. In the meantime, if he calls, don’t answer, and contact me immediately.” He handed me his card. “Do you have any questions?” “I guess not. It’s all just so … surreal.”
He stood up and gave my shoulder a quick squeeze.
“You did the right thing by talking to us.”
I nodded like I believed him.
That night, while Ally played outside with Moose, I kept watch through the sliding glass door as I peeled carrots and listened to the TV playing behind me. When the local news came on, I almost cut myself. Sure enough, their lead story was Karen Christianson. They showed shots of the university — bunnies nibbling grass on the front lawn, noisy students in the cafeteria, a classroom door — while a newscaster said a professor had been identified as Karen Christianson, the Campsite Killer’s only surviving victim. They didn’t give my name, just said that Karen was rumored to have a daughter living in Nanaimo who couldn’t be reached for comment. The newscaster’s closing line was delivered in a somber voice. “As the days grow warmer, we can’t help but wonder where the Campsite Killer is now, and where he’ll be this summer.” That’s when I turned the TV off.
When Ally came back inside I told her we were going to play a game of “let’s pretend” and went over our safety rules. Evan and I had done this with her before, but this time every little detail mattered. Ally soon tired of the game, but I made her go over everything twice. What our code word is: Moose. That she’s not to go anywhere with an adult who doesn’t know it. What number on the phone is programmed to dial 911, what things the operator might ask, especially our address. And a new rule: she’s not to answer any phone, or open the door until an adult looks first. My heart stopped every time she forgot something.
When I snapped at her for answering the phone twenty minutes later, which turned out to be Lauren, she shut herself in her room and refused to talk to me. I made pancakes for dinner and wrote I’m sorry in blueberries. She got over it, but I still felt bad dropping her off at school this morning.
When I got home the police were waiting to tap my landline, and ADT arrived soon after to wire the house. They also showed me how to use the small personal alarm, which I’m supposed to wear around my neck. I don’t want Ally to ask about it, so I carry it in my purse. After everyone cleared out I stared at the alarm and my now-tapped phone, trying not to panic. How long is this going to last? I can’t even have a private conversation with Evan anymore — The phone rang.
Just go look. It’s probably not even him.
It rang again.
It might be the police.
Evan’s cell number. I let my breath out in a rush.
He said, “Hi, baby, I—” then broke off. Dead air. When I called back I got voice mail. Great, another dropped call. I slammed down the receiver. When it rang again I almost picked it right up, but at the last minute I noticed the call display. It was a pay phone. I held my breath and waited for it to stop ringing. He called back five times.
This time I phoned the police right away, Nadine, but the man didn’t leave a message, so we aren’t any further ahead. Sergeant Dubois said I still shouldn’t answer the calls until I talk to the Serious Crimes Unit people, and they can’t be on the island until tomorrow. They want me to come in first thing and give a DNA sample. That’s why I rescheduled our appointment for this afternoon. Well, that and because I can’t think straight.
I tried some of the techniques you suggested: going for a run, writing in a journal, meditating, humming to release the tight feeling in my throat — I even tried humming while meditating. The worst part about all of this is that I can’t tell my family, can’t talk to Lauren. You know me — I dump everything out, then figure out what to do. Thank God for Evan. We talked last night and he’s being super supportive, but I miss him so much. When he’s around I feel more focused, settled, like everything’s going to be okay.
Today Julia’s lawyer released a statement that she wasn’t Karen Christianson and had never given a child up for adoption. Anyone claiming otherwise would be faced with legal action. This morning after I dropped Ally off at school a reporter and a cameraman were waiting in my driveway. Taking my dad’s advice, I told them the statement was true, neither Julia Laroche nor Karen Christianson was my birth mother, and I’d sue if they printed anything about me or my family. Then I closed the door in their faces.
I understand why Julia lied — she’s trying to protect herself. In my case I’m trying to protect Ally, but it was weird reading that Julia denied she’d had me. It made me feel like I don’t exist or something. But that’s not such a bad thing right now. I’m not looking forward to the DNA test. If it matches with the DNA they have on file from the crime scenes, then all of this will be real. I keep hoping it won’t match. Maybe there was a mix-up with the adoption records and I’m not Julia’s daughter after all. I could only be so lucky.