Time Between

By Lucas Patt

About the Book
A mystifying occurrence takes place between the death and dying of Charlotta Aims. Her body is discovered in her brand-new Mercedes found parked in an alley, posed with a red rose, and her beautiful face has been made hideous with layers of gelatinous makeup. Her body is wrapped in a wedding gown, and missing the little finger on her right hand. How she died, why her body was defiled, and how she ended up in a bad part of town is unknown.
Barry Gunther is an ugly, little man with a persona warped by a troubled childhood. He engages in morbid hobbies, including one he calls ‘Flesh Painting,’ a hobby that has nothing to do with body art, but everything to do with immortal preservation.
The investigation leads detectives to a mortuary where they must stay alert to stay alive. Together they make gruesome discoveries, and they all point to Barry Gunther as the killer. So, too, does the forensic evidence, except for one set of unidentified footprints. Still, Detective Sorensen is confident he has his man until he receives a phone call from the victim’s psychic aunt who lives in Sweden thousands of miles away. She reports a dream that unsettles the lead detective and casts doubt on his conviction.
Added to this mix of intrigue is a jealous husband, a spurned high school jock, a not-so-feminine housekeeper, and three employees of an exclusive car dealership.
Time Between will leave readers guessing until the very last page.

About the Author
Lucas Patt lives in Nebraska. Patt has published articles in Memory Makers, CNA, Great American Crafts, Memory Magic, Family Tree, and Rubber Stampin’ Retailer. In addition, Patt has written and illustrated an idea book published by Krause Publications. During a once-in-a-lifetime trip to Sweden, Patt was inspired to write Time Between. Returning to the U.S.A. Patt began penning a draft of Dan’s daunting experience inside the Vadstena castle.
Having beaten the 4% - 6% odds for surviving pancreatic cancer, Patt is grateful to live to finish Time Between. Now cancer free, she hopes to use her publishing success as an inspiration for others to keep fighting and make dreams come true. May God bless this work, and may you enjoy this story as intended – scary entertainment and a cause for pause. Her hobbies include paper crafting, writing, riding a four-wheeler and nature walks. She has a husband, three grown children, and twelve grandchildren. Her favorite role in life is being a grandparent.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dorrance Publishing Company
• Release date: Jan 30, 2023
• ISBN: 9798886045499

Book preview

The contents of this work, including, but not limited to, the accuracy of events, people, and places depicted; opinions expressed; permission to use previously published materials included; and any advice given or actions advocated are solely the responsibility of the author, who assumes all liability for said work and indemnifies the publisher against any claims stemming from publication of the work.

All Rights Reserved

Copyright © 2023 by Lucas Patt

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted, downloaded, distributed, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, including photocopying and recording, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without permission in writing from the publisher.

Dorrance Publishing Co

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Visit our website at www.dorrancebookstore.com

ISBN: 979-8-8860-4279-5

eISBN: 979-8-8860-4549-9

Psalm 106:6 "We have sinned, we and our fathers;

we have committed crimes; we have done wrong."

Hobbies

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Hairy, muscular arms lift a heavy cellar door from a wooden floor. After latching it to the wall, a mangy cat scampers down the stairs ahead of him. The partially rotted steps reek of cat urine and feces. Slowly, he descends. Crumbling plaster walls smell of mold and mildew. It is dark, so he waits for his eyes to adjust before lighting a candle nestled in the cup of a tall antique pewter stand. In addition to the flame, a little bit of light seeps through a ground level window streaked with a heavy build-up of grime. A stray bullet had left a big pockmark on the glass.

This is his workroom and he puts on a white lab coat much too big for him, so he rolls the sleeves up at the wrists. A three-step ladder stands next to a long table that is, in fact, a cooling table for the dead. Its’ aged and spotted glass surface has holes drilled into it. Air conditioning did not exist in the early twentieth century and it had been necessary to vent cool air from blocks of ice placed beneath to help keep the dead body preserved.

He uses the ladder as a stool and candlelight spills over his hunched figure and reflects off the table’s glass surface. Silvery, black hair falls from beneath his ball cap to the collar of his coat. Under the sparse light the fabric glows a ghostly white. He picks up, what appears to be, a miniature disembodied head.

He reaches beneath the table and pulls open a drawer holding small brushes and cosmetics. He selects what he needs and sets them and the doll head on the table.

To the right of a round stain lays a book titled, Embalming Alpha to Omega in the Prep Room. He flips through pages on how to position a body on an embalming table, setting features of the deceased, washing and styling lifeless hair, techniques for injecting embalming fluids and correct ways to place a body into a casket and stops at the chapter, Cosmetic Tips for Blending Colors on Lifeless Faces.

Thoughtfully, he chooses liquid gel foundations intended for lightly tinting human flesh, or to cover flaws, burns, and birthmarks when applied thick enough. The cadaver makeup will not soak into skin tissues or streak to allow touchups and changes at the discretion of the artist.

An old plastic plate serves as his palette and he squeezes five colors onto it: rosy blush, peach, olive, suntan, and a slight violet hue he mostly uses to tint, highlight, and add warmth to the lips.

Holding the Caucasian doll head made of rubber, he studies its’ smooth surface. It has no hair — just molded eyebrows, nose, mouth, and two plastic eyes that open and shut when tilted. He bonds them shut with adhesive.

Next, he blends the gels, then dips a sponge brush into the pool of colors and applies the makeup. Too much olive creates a beige complexion with a ghoulish olive tint. After brushing the makeup on both doll’s ears, he dips the brush repeatedly until he covers every millimeter of rubber skin.

Taking a clean brush, he dips into the rosy blush and dapples the cheeks. With a cotton ball, he adds yellow, then tosses the cotton ball to the floor. Next, he pulls a package of cheap, fake eyelashes out of his pocket. Using a tiny pair of scissors, he snips the adhesive lashes to better fit the width of the doll’s eyelid. After trading the scissors for a pair of tweezers, he positions the lashes.

An old, worn leather case lays unzipped and open, displaying an assortment of stainless-steel artery cannulas. He studies the radial tubes intended for inspecting or withdrawing body fluids, but he has found a different use. Selecting the cannula with the smallest diameter he presses the lashes firmly onto the doll’s lid. Satisfied, he returns the cannula to the case, picks up the other strip of lashes, and repeats the process on the other eye.

Eyelashes in place, he reaches into the breast pocket of his lab coat and produces a tube of black eyeliner and an eyebrow pencil — also black. He sets them on the table, picks up the eyeliner, and applies a thick line just above the lashes of each eye. With the pencil, he blackens the raised rubber eyebrows. It is difficult to keep the pencil from slipping and hard to judge exactly where the eyebrow stops and the smooth rubber skin begins. The blackened eyebrows look fat and bushy.

Turning his attention to an enameled steel cabinet, he opens its doors to reveal a vast array of eyeshadows organized on color-coded trays: every shade of green on a green tray, every shade of brown on a brown tray for a total of twelve color trays. Each shadow has its own sponge applicator. He selects the blue tray and walks back to the table to consider his choices of azure, baby blue, cerulean, cobalt, cornflower, denim, electric, midnight, green/blue, periwinkle, sapphire, and steel. He narrows his picks to electric, green/blue, and steel. One by one, he strokes the shades onto a piece of paper, then lifts the paper to examine the contrast and harmony of each shade against the olive beige. Finally, he chooses the steel blue and awkwardly applies the shadow to the doll’s eyelids until they appear gray and sunken.

For the final addition, he adds a violet tint to the lips, but instead of providing warmth, the violet color clashes with the olive complexion. The effect is cold and harsh. He growls in frustration. For him, flesh painting is much easier than applying makeup to a doll head.

But then, the cosmetic art doesn’t cause him to go into a trance. When he flesh paints, an unseen force directs him and the results are stunning. He consults his watch. It is 4:30. Happy Hour at the bar starts in half an hour. Time to quit.

He picks up the gruesome head and walks toward a far wall, passing a stack of dusty old crates and a sagging metal sink piled with limp rubber hoses. He steps on a floor drain clogged with hair and stops at a wooden cabinet about the size of a TV stand. Grasping a naked spiral screw that serves as a handle, he opens a door and adds the head to his macabre collection of painted and unpainted craniums.

He turns and walks toward another cooling table with a wood veneer top instead of glass. It, too, has holes in its surface, but these holes form words: The National Patent Applied for Special Veneer Top and Brass Trimmings. Two votive candles rest on the table’s surface. He takes the last match out of a box and uses it to light them.

By candlelight, he inspects four portraits hanging on the wall above. They are paintings of common animals. Two cat portraits are centered side by side. Below them is a portrait of a dog positioned to the left of the cats and a squirrel is to the right. Each animal illuminates an unearthly and disturbing style masterfully done by an artistic genius. The painted animals have three things in common: they are laying on their backs, the front paws meet or cross upon their chests, and each holds a bloom. All the blooms are fresh wildflowers, except for the squirrel. It holds a wilted dandelion. He avoids looking at the squirrel.

Whenever he looks at the paintings, their spirits come to life. In a dizzying rush, the animals’ memories flash like moving visions through his mind. Each painting absorbs his whole being, and for a moment, he lives its memories. The kitten causes him to raise his arm and swish the air with his hand as if he were batting at a weed blowing in the breeze on a cool spring morning. He giggles and continues the swishing until his eyes rest on the painting of the other cat. The giggling stops and his hands drop to the table. His smile turns into a threatening frown. He bends his knees and squats as he becomes the cat stalking a rat over a dusty, littered floor of an abandoned house. He hisses loudly before his eyes move to the painting of the dog. He digs his nails into the table, believing he is digging into the haunches of a Doberman as he humps and thrusts his hips back and forth, back and forth, grunting and panting.

A loud metallic crash and a low, guttural growl breaks the spell. His live cat has reacted to a stray outside and knocked the tray of eye shadows from the table. It clangs when it hits the floor and the tins of eye makeup scatter everywhere.

He stands with his boner and curses the mangy cat for interrupting his orgasm.

Night Out

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"So pride adorns them as a necklace;

as a robe violence enwraps them."

Psalm 73: 6

Deep in the night, Rochelle Williams awakes to a shrill sound and wonders why she bothered to set her alarm. She didn’t have any classes until late in the afternoon and wasn’t scheduled to work. Her head aches. Another hangover, she thinks. But this one is especially bad. Her drugged stupor doesn’t stop her body from registering pain, as if needles and rocks are poking her all over. She knows she isn’t lying in her soft bed, and that scares her. The high-pitched chirp sounds again. What the heck IS that?

Slowly, as she turns her head sideways and stretches out her hand, gravel and rocks scrape against her cheek. A painful jab in her ribs pierces her side while her hand feels something gooey and prickly. Blades of grass and dry, thorny weeds are so close to her face it is peering through dense foliage. The hind legs of a cricket tickle her nose and hops away from her. A foul odor fills her nostrils. Abruptly, she sits up and finds her hand is lying in a puddle of vomit.

Repulsed, she swipes her hand onto her bare leg and discovers her skirt, stockings, and lacy thong panties are below her knees. The night air chills her naked skin and hard, sharp rocks press against her bare bottom.

Shit!

She struggles to her feet and pulls up her thong. A sticker weed attached to her stocking pricks her thumb. As she pulls her miniskirt above her thighs, she spies the shimmering silver fabric of her top laying on the ground and quickly pulls it on. The pounding in her head pounds harder as she tries to focus on where she is.

By now her eyes have adjusted to the darkness and she sees she is in an alley surrounded by abandoned buildings and dilapidated houses infested with rodents, feral cats, and roaches. This place is nothing like the upper-class, cookie-cutter community where she lives. It makes her shudder.

The only sign of life is the buzzing of mosquitoes trying to make a meal of her. She notices her purse laying open on the ground and rifles through it to discover her money is gone. But the car keys are there and none of her credit cards are missing. All at once, her panic gives way to excitement. What a great night it had been!

She had won the game she and her girlfriend, Dana, often played to add spice to their humdrum lives as ordinary college students working part-time minimum wage jobs. To play the game, they would seek out bikers wearing tight, black leather pants, red scarf bandanas, and sleeveless T-shirts hugging brawny torsos, big tattoos across masculine chests, and graphic images burned into muscular biceps; these were the bad boys Rochelle and Dana considered ideal weekend recreation. The two girls would select and compete for the cutest one.

The first couple times they played it safe, making sure they used protection against STDs and unwanted pregnancy. But, as time went on, they worried less about contraception. They had never met a biker who didn’t pack a condom, and they came to equate bikers with safe sex.

Her mind settles and replays last night’s game.

Leaning her aching body against a big black pole, Rochelle forces herself to recall details that might lead her to her car. She remembers thinking it was the seediest bar they’d ever seen. Outside, a trashy old bicycle leaned against a tree near a rusted-out suburban parked at the curb, but it was the motorcycles that had attracted them.

And so, they entered and saw a couple geezers who looked somewhere between fifty-five and sixty-five. There was the bartender, of course, but he looked even older than the geezers. At a table sat a rowdy trio of bikers.

At once, the girls spotted the cute one with blonde, curly hair and a mustache, smoldering green eyes, and a dangerous smile. Tattooed barbed wire snaked around both his wrists and a topless angel flexed on one bicep.

He has a cute ass. She grins at the memory of him. That cute biker must have lured me into this alley. We must have messed around until I passed out. Her left cheek feels a little tender and she seems to remember him slapping her face to keep her from passing out. She pushes her hand against her forehead. Think, Rochelle, think. This is important. Did he use a condom?

Deciding a smoke might help clear her head, she searches through her purse for cigarettes. They aren’t there. That bastard stole them. Without the support of a cigarette, she refocuses and tries to remember. She guesses they had competed for his attention for about two hours and…Rochelle’s pale face drains whiter…it was Dana who walked out with the prize!

Then who did I have sex with? The pounding in her head pounds harder and panic strikes again. She wills herself to concentrate.

The other bikers had long gone by the time Dana and her prize had left, so she sat there drinking alone and munching on shelled peanuts. She remembered brushing the shells onto the stained wooden floor and the dark bar lit by neon beer signs and the TV screen. Through eyes hazy under the influence of hard liquor, she had scanned the tavern umpteen times looking for prospects. Only the geezers sat belly-up to the bar with their backs to her, watching a baseball game. The grimy bartender kept busy refilling their beers and drinking one of his own.

Rochelle scowls. No way could I ever get desperate or drunk enough to kiss one of those ugly old toads.

She had planned to stick around ‘til closing, but the place was dead. The only excitement were outbursts of cheering or swearing from the game spectators. So, she had downed the rest of her drink, sat the empty glass on the table, and left forty-five minutes before closing time.

Getting up from her stool had caused her to lose her balance and she nearly fell.

Go! Go! Run to third! yelled one of the men.

Nobody noticed her. There was a crunching noise underfoot as she stepped on broken peanut shells, skidded on one, and barely managed to keep upright. Somehow, she made it to the door and stepped out into the night, alone.

Alone! I left the bar alone! So, what happened after that? Her heart races, and she fights back the panic that threatens to consume her. Shadows of the night disperse into the predawn while she forces her mind back into the blackness of events. I must have headed in the opposite direction of my parked car. She remembers passing an old mortuary and hearing a squeaking sound. She had been woozy and lightheaded and sick to her stomach. The squeaking sound stopped and everything began spinning…leafy tree branches swirled around her and stars became whirling night lights.

That must have been when I threw up the peanuts and passed out. A realization horrifies her and sends a sobering chill up her spine. She needs to find her car and get out of there.

Numbly, she walks to the end of the rocky, dirt road and has to make up her mind to go right or left. She picks right and cautiously makes her way down the sidewalk. A feeling of uncertainty plagues her until she sees the old mortuary. Four more blocks to go.

As soon as she sees her car, she runs to it. Sinking back into the seat, she relaxes a moment. Bravely, she peeks into the mirror to assess the damage from her rough night. What she sees makes her gasp. Looking back at her is a horrible face streaked in layers of hideous make-up. Someone has penciled her brows thickly in black, making them appear angry and menacing. Thick, false eyelashes heavily coated in mascara are stuck to her lids above her own lashes, and smeary globs of deep red goo covered her cheeks.

Rochelle sobs and screams hysterically, Who did this to me?

#4855 – 052520204855

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"Have pity on me, oh Lord, for I am in distress;

with sorrow my eye is consumed; my soul also, and my body."

Psalm 31:10

Dana smiles as she lies wrapped in the warmth of her lover’s arms. It had been a magical night. His experience and gentle loving had sent her into glorious orgasms. She wakes feeling invigorated from their near sleepless night.

Meanwhile, her friend, Rochelle, feels trapped in a hard, cold nightmare. Too stunned to think or take in her surroundings, Rochelle mechanically drives her car along the city streets and somehow manages to arrive at Dana’s apartment. It’s early on a Saturday morning. Someone is walking their dog. Not another soul is about.

Fear and an acute awareness of danger shatters her protective shell of detachment. Frantic, she exits her car, runs up the stairs to the apartment, and pounds on Dana’s door. Come on, Dana! You must be home! Please be there! Rochelle waits, then pounds again. She can’t shake the feeling someone is still after her and is desperate to find safety.

Pound! Pound! Pound!

The loud and unexpected beating on the door disturbs Dana’s erotic craving. Who could that be? Tempted to ignore the noise and begin another love session with her biker, she thinks of Rochelle, the only person who would show up unannounced. Why is she pounding so hard? Is she in trouble? The pounding starts again. Dana looks at her lover and sees he is snoozing peacefully with a half-smile on his face.

Bam! Bam! Bam! The pounding becomes louder and more insistent.

Careful not to disturb him, Dana slips out of bed, surprised the pounding hasn’t woken him. Pulling on a robe, she tiptoes out of the room and closes the door softly.

Bam! Bam! Bam!

Dana’s annoyance changes into shock when she peers through the peephole. A hysterical woman stands on her doorstep. Horrific eyes, half hidden under fat, spidery lashes and glazed with insanity poured rivulets of tears through thick, goopy makeup smeared all over the crazed woman’s face. It takes a moment for Dana to recognize who it is. Rochelle! What’s wrong? What…?

Rochelle screams, I was – I was RAPED!

Dana pulls her friend inside and watches Rochelle collapse into hysterical sobs.

A husky male voice, drowsy from sleep shouts from Dana’s bedroom, Where’d you go, baby?

Dana shouts, Go back to sleep! Her pulse quickens as Rochelle’s terror seeps into her. Resting her hands upon Rochelle’s shoulders, Dana stares into her friend’s eyes and asks, What is that all over your face?

I don’t know, Rochelle sobs.

The crazy lashes are like two hairy tarantulas nesting on a web of gore. It confuses and frightens Dana. Where were you, Rochelle?

The tarantulas move up and down as Rochelle speaks through her tears, I w-woke up in an alley. Someone ra-raped me when I was passed out. Her sobbing becomes hysterical hiccups.

Dana directs her friend to the living room sofa and they both sit down.

The blond biker struts out of the bedroom shirtless, barefoot, and wearing only his underwear.

Rochelle stiffens in fear.

He looks at the two girls, then takes a second look at Rochelle. What the hell happened to you?

Rochelle cringes, then cries harder.

Dana shoots him an accusing look. I think one of your buddies raped her!

His blue eyes open wide. What? No way! Then he becomes angry. Listen, bitch! He looks at Dana and points to Rochelle. Ain’t no way any of my friends raped her! His lip lifts into a snarl of indignity.

Rochelle buries her face deep into Dana’s shoulder.

The biker drops his hand into a fist. Figures… he mutters. Then he raises his hand again, this time pointing at Dana dramatically. I don’t need this, beautiful. There are plenty of women like you and your friend who’ll give plenty of pussy — free of charge! He strolls over to the refrigerator, opens it, and asks, What’s for breakfast?

Dana ignores him. Rochelle, do you want me to call your mother?

No! She can’t know about any of this! Rochelle screams.

Here’s some eggs, interrupts the biker in a calmer voice, holding up the carton. How about you scramble me some?

Dana stands to face him. Get out! Then she turns back to her friend. Rochelle, we need to get you to the hospital.

No hospital!

Dana firmly commands, You need to be checked out.

Shrugging off the last of his anger, the biker puts the eggs away and walks back to the couch where the girls sit hunched in fear. Look, honey, I’ll talk to the guys and see if any of them know anything. His beautiful blue eyes stare into hers. I’ll call you later. He takes a minute to dress, then leaves.

Rochelle turns to her friend and pleads, Do you have a washcloth? I’ve got to scrub my face.

Dana refuses. No, honey. You must go to the hospital. You have to report this.

No! I want to wash my face! I want to take a shower!

Dana insists, No! You’d destroy evidence. You must go to the hospital!

Rochelle dissolves into tears. They won’t believe me!

Dana sweeps back the hair that has fallen in her friend’s eyes. Of course they’ll believe you. Just look at yourself! Dana points to a large mirror hanging on the adjoining dining room wall.

Rochelle’s eyes follow her friend’s finger to meet the reflection of her horribly altered face. It frightens her and she quickly looks away. A feeling of panic and a keen sense of guilt sweep over her. They’ll blame me, she argues. I shouldn’t have gone there. I shouldn’t have gotten drunk. Suddenly, she becomes angry. You shouldn’t have left me there alone!

In her mind, Dana agrees. She’s right. If I hadn’t left her alone, this wouldn’t have happened. I’m sorry, Rochelle. A tear runs down her cheek.

Instantly, Rochelle regrets her accusation. It wasn’t your fault, Dana.

Dana wipes the tear away and toughens her stance. That’s right, Rochelle, and it wasn’t your fault either. It happened because there’s a rapist out there. She stares at the sick makeup job on her friend’s face. A maniac rapist is on the loose! Only a maniac would smear this creepy, gooey makeup all over your face. It’s weird! It’s demented! You can’t let him get away with it. You can’t let him do this to others!

Again, Rochelle dissolves into tears. She can say no more.

You can report it anonymously, encourages Dana. Your name doesn’t have to go on the report.

Rochelle lapses into the protective shell of detachment she had mentally created when driving her car to Dana’s. Feeling defeated, she allows her friend to take over.

When they arrive at the emergency entrance, Dana parks the car, then throws her arm around Rochelle. Together, they make their way into the hospital.

Rochelle’s appearance shocks the admittance clerk and he calls for help. A nurse enters the lobby. For a second, Rochelle’s frightening condition stops the nurse in her tracks before she rushes to the girl’s side. Mechanically, Rochelle follows the nurse to an exam room while Dana stays behind and fills out the paperwork.

The nurse is tall, slightly overweight, and has a beautiful face lined with fine wrinkles that give her a wise appearance. Her hair is brown and cut in a crisp, short style that emphasizes her round cheekbones and makes her neck appear longer than it is.

I need to use the restroom, mutters Rochelle.

No, not yet, replies the nurse. We need to examine you first.

Examine me? Rochelle’s protective shell threatens to crack. I don’t want to be examined!

The nurse gives Rochelle a compassionate smile as she continues to lead Rochelle into a room where the nurse introduces herself as Ann. Ann seats Rochelle into a comfortable chair, then sits down directly across from the frightened girl.

Rochelle cringes in anticipation of the questions she imagines: What were you doing in such a bad part of town? Why are you dressed like a hooker? Was this really a rape?

To her relief, Ann asks none of those questions. Instead, Ann assures her the rape isn’t her fault and gives a brief talk about the importance of gathering evidence immediately, emphasizing, It’s best to gather evidence within ninety-six hours of the attack.

Rochelle stares at the nurse’s badge. Beneath Ann is the word SANE in all caps. What does that mean? It doesn’t make sense. Everything is crazy. Pointing to the badge, Rochelle asks, What is ‘sane’?

The question stops Ann midsentence. Looking down at her badge, then back at Rochelle, Ann smiles and explains, SANE stands for Sexual Assault Nurse Examiner.

Rochelle’s eyes widen.

Ann quickly assures her, I’m very experienced, and everything we do and talk about is in complete confidence. The law requires I report your rape to the police, but you have the right to remain anonymous, if you choose. We can identify your case with a number and if the rapist is identified, we can notify you.

I want to be anonymous, whispers Rochelle.

Certainly, assures Ann, then repeats the importance of an immediate exam.

Rochelle’s eyes clamp shut to make everything and everyone go away. But Dana’s alarm sounds in her head: He’s demented! He is a maniac! Don’t let him hurt others! Clamping her hands into fists, Rochelle opens her eyes and stoically agrees to the exam.

Ann asks if Rochelle wants Dana or anyone else in the room during the examination.

She wants her mother but can’t bring herself to say it. Rochelle’s cheeks flush deep red as she thinks how personal the examination will be. The grotesque makeup conceals her embarrassment, but her shy voice betrays her as she quietly says, No, thank you.

Two reasons stop her from including Dana in the examination: fear of lashing out at her friend as she had done at the apartment, and an overpowering urge to deny the rape had happened. Dana’s presence would stop her from pretending the exam was nothing more than a yearly checkup.

However, she can’t prevent the presence of Ann’s assistant, Brandy. Rochelle’s eyes grow big as Ann informs her of this requirement. The thought of her body naked and exposed to another stranger makes Rochelle anxious. She is about to protest, but one look at Brandy and her anxiety diminishes. Brandy is, like Ann, full of compassion and comfort while she introduces herself as a SART member. Later, Rochelle will learn it stands for Sexual Assault Response Team.

Rochelle’s eyes turn back to Ann.

As if reading her mind, Ann assures her Brandy is on her side.

Like a frightened turtle, Rochelle crawls deeper into her protective shell. She feels as though someone else is in control of her mind and body while she goes through the motions, mechanically doing whatever they ask of her. She gives a urine sample to Brandy and numbly recites the horror of what had happened to her. She robotically answers questions and signs the consent forms.

Once the paperwork is complete, flashes from a camera momentarily blind her, each flash recording the hideous makeup smeared on her face. Next, she closes her eyes and endures genital photos of all the places exploitation can exist in God knows what way by God knows who. To encourage cooperation, the nurse promises to explain everything as she goes.

Rochelle lies on the examining table while the nurse studies her body and periodically fills out Rochelle’s assault history.

Every time Ann withdraws an item from a rape kit, she explains it, as promised. Swabs for collecting fluids.

Rochelle feels the soft cotton upon her lips, cheeks, and thighs. Again, Rochelle closes her eyes nervously as the nurse gently swabs her vagina and anus. Brandy carefully places these items into bags, writing and attaching descriptive labels as she goes.

Rochelle listens to the nurse’s calm and soothing voice throughout the evidentiary pelvic exam.

Holding up a comb, Ann says, This is for collecting hair and fiber left behind by your attacker.

Rochelle opens her eyes and watches Brandy label the individual bags as they are handed to her.

Ann continues to hold up instruments for Rochelle to see. These are blood collection devices. I’m going to use one to extract a little bit of blood from the scrape on your face.

Once again, Rochelle closes her eyes and feels something press against her cheek. The nurse continues to explain the evidence she’s collected: the small flake of dander from Rochelle’s tummy and the pubic hair from Rochelle’s thigh.

Next, the nurse holds up a lamp attached to a cord and snaps it on. She aims the light at Rochelle’s feet and slowly guides the light up Rochelle’s leg. She explains, This is an ultralight. It helps me scan for evidence, such as dried and moist secretions, fibers not visible in regular light…oh, here’s one. The narration stops while she works to remove the fiber and places it into a bag. Ann hands the bag to Brandy, then continues, And the light helps me find subtle injuries nearly impossible to see with the naked eye. The nurse thoroughly examines Rochelle’s body with the light, often stopping to collect evidence and record her findings on a chart. Finally, she snaps the light off and respectfully covers Rochelle from the neck down with a hospital blanket. Lifting glass slides from the kit, Ann explains they are for examining evidence under a microscope.

On the report, Ann writes the type of penetration Rochelle had suffered and charts signs of violations on Rochelle’s body. Ann notes there are no bites and no lubrication applied. She records the semen found in the vagina and the suspect drips on Rochelle’s belly. She adds the fact her patient had vomited, along with a brief description of the torn and dirty condition of Rochelle’s clothes.

While Ann drafts her report, Rochelle lies on the table, grateful for the blanket covering her nakedness. The exam is taking a long time, and she wonders when it will end. She also wonders what Ann is writing in her report.

As always, Ann suppresses her emotions while she works and tries hard not to relive her own nightmare. She had never reported the son-of-a-bitch who had raped her and regretted that decision. She had done all the wrong things: erased the evidence in a long, hot bath, kept the assault a secret, and denied the horror had ever occurred. Helping and aiding victims like herself became her life’s mission, and she is determined to help prosecute rapists and hold them accountable. We are almost done, she murmurs as she scribbles her notes.

Lastly, Ann holds up a nail pick. I’m going to scrape beneath your nails for evidence.

Rochelle remains silent and obedient. The sound of Ann’s voice continues to soothe her.

Even the white sheet beneath you is used to collect physical evidence. When she finishes scraping and has deposited her findings into a bag, Ann gazes at the empty kit and says, We are done with this exam. She smiles at Rochelle. You did very well. Thank you for your bravery. As she expects, Rochelle barely acknowledges the compliment with a nod. She knows from experience her patient is still in disbelief.

Ann opens a drawer and removes a packet of cotton pads. She wipes makeup off Rochelle’s cheek and forehead, puts the used pads into an evidence bag, and says, Let’s get rid of those awful fake eyelashes.

Eyes shut tight, Rochelle can feel rubber-like fingertips apply a creamy substance to her lids followed by soft tugs while Ann uses a pair of tweezers to remove them.

Ann saves the lashes as evidence. Now, let’s get you cleaned up. Brandy will show you where everything is and then help you get dressed. Before leaving, Ann promises to meet Rochelle in another private room where Dana is waiting.

***

Dana paces back and forth as she mentally struggles. What exactly happened to Rochelle? Why would anyone put makeup on her face? Who would do that? Nothing makes sense. Rochelle enjoys sex. She enjoys our games! No one needed to rape her. Was she really raped, or is this just a big prank? Ha! Ha! Got you, Dana!

Her cell phone rings. Hi, baby. How’s your friend?

Touched by Robby’s concern, Dana’s heart lifts at the sound of his voice. Not so great. We’re at the hospital and she’s being examined now. She hears his husky voice again:

Well, I talked to my buddies, and none of them raped her. They all went to the concert in Flannigan Park. Nobody knew nothin’ about your friend.

Dana’s voice cracks and she swallows hard. Are you sure?

Hell, yes, I’m sure! I’m the only one who got lucky last night. He grins at the memory. After the concert, they raced their bikes until five a.m. There is a pause. Are you okay, Dana? Do you need me?

Dana’s heart swells. I do, but not here. Rochelle is afraid of all men right now.

Robby understands. Well, call me if you need me.

The line goes dead before she can respond. It doesn’t matter. She knows her biker is someone special.

Rochelle enters the room dressed in yoga pants, a T-shirt, and a pair of rubber sandals and quietly sits down next to Dana. Dana hugs her friend. Ann and Brandy offer the girls coffee and a sandwich. Dana accepts the coffee, but neither girl feels like eating. Brandy leaves to get the coffee.

Ann can’t help noticing with satisfaction how much better Rochelle looks with the makeup scrubbed off her face, and in fresh clothes—not torn and covered in sticker weeds.

Dana’s uncombed hair and rumpled clothes make her look as if she had slept in them. However, Dana’s tear-stained eyes and the worry lines etched in her face prove otherwise.

Dana is exhausted, not so much from the lack of sleep, but from the emotional drain.

Troubling thoughts cram into her head. What if Rochelle has contracted AIDS or syphilis or another sexually transmitted disease? What kind of pervert rapes and then puts makeup on a defenseless, unconscious stranger? Why did this have to happen to Rochelle?

Rochelle leans distraughtly into Dana, lost in her own thoughts. Mom, I need you. I’m sorry. Please don’t hate me. I promise I will never play this stupid game again! Her thoughts drift from shame and disgrace to disbelief. None of this is happening, not rape! Not me! My exams will prove it. I drank too much. It was a hot night. I removed my own clothes to cool off and passed out before I completely undressed. No one was about. I imagined