Prologue
Laurel Estabrook was nearly raped the fall of her sophomore year of college.
Quite likely she was nearly murdered that autumn. This was no date-rape disaster
with a handsome, entitled UVM frat boy after the two of them had spent too much
time flirting beside the bulbous steel of a beer keg; this was one of those
violent, sinister attacks involving masked men-yes, men, plural, and they
actually were wearing wool ski masks that shielded all but their eyes and the
snarling rifts of their mouths-that one presumes only happens to other women in
distant states. To victims whose faces appear on the morning news programs, and
whose devastated, forever-wrecked mothers are interviewed by strikingly
beautiful anchorwomen. She was biking on a wooded dirt road twenty miles
northeast of the college in a town with a name that was both ominous and
oxy-moronic: Underhill. In all fairness, the girl did not find the name
Underhill menacing before she was assaulted. But she also did not return there
for any reason in the years after the attack. It was somewhere around six-thirty
on a Sunday evening, and this was the third Sunday in a row that she had packed
her well-traveled mountain bike into the back of her roommate Talia’s station
wagon and driven to Underhill to ride for miles and miles along the logging
roads that snaked through the nearby forest. At the time, it struck her as
beautiful country: a fairy-tale wood more Lewis than Grimm, the maples not yet
the color of claret. It was all new growth, a third-generation tangle of maple
and oak and ash, the remnants of stone walls still visible in the understory not
far from the paths. It was nothing like the Long Island suburbs where she had
grown up, a world of expensive homes with manicured lawns only blocks from a
long neon-lit swath of fast-food restaurants, foreign car dealers, and
weight-loss clinics in strip malls.
After the attack, of course, her memories of that patch of Vermont woods were
transformed, just as the name of the nearby town gained a different, darker
resonance. Later, when she recalled those roads and hills- some seeming too
steep to bike, but bike them she did- she would think instead of the washboard
ruts that had jangled her body and her overriding sense that the great canopy of
leaves from the trees shielded too much of the view and made the woods too thick
to be pretty. Sometimes, even many years later, when she would be trying to
fight her way to sleep through the flurries of wakefulness, she would see those
woods after the leaves had fallen, and visualize only the long finger grips of
the skeletal birches.
By six-thirty that evening the sun had just about set and the air was growing
moist and chilly. But she wasn’t worried about the dark because she had parked
her friend’s wagon in a gravel pull-off beside a paved road that was no more
than three miles distant. There was a house beside the pull-off with a single
window above an attached garage, a Cyclops visage in shingle and glass. She
would be there in ten or fifteen minutes, and as she rode she was aware of the
thick-lipped whistle of the breeze in the trees. She was wearing a pair of black
bike shorts and a jersey with an image of a yellow tequila bottle that looked
phosphorescent printed on the front. She didn’t feel especially vulnerable. She
felt, if anything, lithe and athletic and strong. She was nineteen.
Then a brown van passed her. Not a minivan, a real van. The sort of van that,
when harmless, is filled with plumbing and electrical supplies, and when not
harmless is packed with the deviant accoutrements of serial rapists and violent
killers. Its only windows were small portholes high above the rear tires, and
she had noticed as it passed that the window on the passenger side had been
curtained off with black fabric. When the van stopped with a sudden squeal forty
yards ahead of her, she knew enough to be scared. How could she not? She had
grown up on Long Island- once a dinosaur swampland at the edge of a towering
range of mountains, now a giant sandbar in the shape of a salmon- the almost
preternaturally strange petri dish that spawned Joel Rifkin (serial killer of
seventeen women), Colin Ferguson (the LIRR slaughter), Cheryl Pierson (arranged
to have her high school classmate murder her father), Richard Angelo (Good
Samaritan Hospital’s Angel of Death), Robert Golub (mutilated a
thirteen-year-old neighbor), George Wilson (shot Jay Gatsby as he floated
aimlessly in his swimming pool), John Esposito (imprisoned a ten-year-old girl
in his dungeon), and Ronald DeFeo (slaughtered his family in Amityville).
In truth, even if she hadn’t grown up in West Egg she would have known enough to
be scared when the van stopped on the lonely road directly before her. Any young
woman would have felt the hairs rise up on the back of her neck. Unfortunately,
the van had come to a stop so abruptly that she couldn’t turn around because the
road was narrow and she used a clipless pedal system when she rode: This meant
that she was linked by a metal cleat in the sole of each cycling shoe to her
pedals. She would have needed to snap her feet free, stop, and put a toe down to
pivot as she swiveled her bike 180 degrees. And before she could do any of that
two men jumped out, one from the driver’s side and one from the passenger’s, and
they both had those intimidating masks shielding their faces: a very bad sign
indeed in late September, even in the faux tundra of northern Vermont.
And so with a desperate burst of adrenaline she tried to pedal past them. She
hadn’t a prayer. One of them grabbed her around her shoulders as she tried to
race by, while the other was hoisting her (and her bicycle) off the ground by
her waist. They were, essentially, tackling her as if she were a running back
and they were a pair of defensive linemen who had reached her in the backfield.
She screamed- shrill, girlish, desperate screams that conveyed both her
vulnerability and her youth- at the same time that a part of her mind focused
analytically on what might have been the most salient feature of her
predicament: She was still locked by her shoes to her bike and she had to remain
that way at all costs, while holding on fast to the handlebars. This alone might
keep her off the sides of Vermont milk cartons and the front pages of the
Vermont newspapers. Why? Because she realized that she couldn’t possibly
overpower her assailants-even her hair was lanky and thin-but if they couldn’t
pry her from the bicycle it would be that much more difficult to cart her into
the deep woods or throw her into the back of their van.
At one point the more muscular of the two, a thug who smelled like a gym- not
malodorous, not sweaty, but metallic like weights- tried to punch her in the
face, but she must have ducked because he slammed his fist into the edge of her
helmet and swore. His eyes beneath his mask were the icy gray of the sky in
November, and around each wrist she saw a coil of barbed wire had been tattooed
like a bracelet. He yelled for his partner- who had a tattoo, as well, a skull
with improbable ears (sharp ears, a wolf’s) and long wisps of smoke snaking up
from between the fangs in its mouth- to put the god-damn bike down so he could
rip her foot from the cleat. Briefly, she considered releasing her foot herself
so she could kick him with the hard point of her bike shoe. But she didn’t.
Thank God. She kept her foot pointing straight ahead, the metal clip in the sole
snapped tightly into the pedal. He tried yanking at her ankle, but he knew
nothing about cleats and so he wasn’t precisely sure how to twist her foot.
Frustrated, he threatened to break her ankle, while his partner began trying to
wrench her thumb and fingers from the handlebars. But she held on, all the while
continuing to scream with the conviction that she was screaming for her life-which,
clearly, she was.
Meanwhile, they called her a cunt. In the space of moments- not minutes, but
maybe- they called her a cunt, a twat, a pussy, a gash. A fucking cunt. A stupid
cunt. A teasing cunt. Fish cunt. Slut cunt. Dead cunt. You dead cunt. No verb.
Even the words were violent, though initially three sounded to her less about
the hate and the anger and the derision: Those words were spoken (not shouted)
with a leer by the thinner of the pair, an inside joke between the two of them,
and it was only after he had repeated them did she understand it was not three
words she was hearing but two. It was a made-up brand name, a noun, a flavor at
her expense. He had reduced her vagina to an aperitif on the mistaken assumption
that there could possibly be even a trace of precoital wetness lubricating her
now. Liqueur Snatch. That was the joke. Get it, get it? Not lick her snatch. A
French cordial instead. But the joke elicited nothing from his partner, no
reaction at all, because this was only about his unfathomable hatred for her.
What therapists call that moment of arousal? For all Laurel knew, it would come
for him the moment she died. The moment they killed her.
Finally, they threw her and her bicycle onto the ground. For a split second she
thought they had given up. They hadn’t. They started to drag her by her bicycle
tires as if she and the bike were a single creature, a dead deer they were
hauling by its legs from the woods. They were dragging her to the van, her right
elbow and knee scraping along the dirt road, intending to throw her-bicycle and
all-into the back.
But they couldn’t, and this, too, is probably a reason why she survived. They
had so much gym equipment crammed into the rear of the vehicle that they
couldn’t fit her inside it while she was attached to her bike. She glimpsed
discus-shaped weights and benches and metal bars when they lifted her up, and
what looked like the vertical components of a Nautilus machine. And so they
tossed her back down onto the hard dirt while they made room for her in the van,
shattering her collarbone and leaving a bruise on her left breast that wouldn’t
heal completely for months. She felt daggers of pain so pronounced that she was
instantly nauseous, and it was only adrenaline that kept her from vomiting.
Still, she continued to grasp the bicycle’s handlebars and keep her feet locked
to its pedals. One of the men barked at her not to move, which, for a variety of
reasons, wasn’t an option: She wasn’t about to let go of the bike, and with a
broken collarbone it was highly unlikely that she could have managed to release
her feet, stand up, and ride away in anything less than half an hour.
How long did she lie there like that? Ten seconds? Fifteen? It probably wasn’t
even half a minute. Her assailants saw the other cyclists before she did. There,
approaching them down the road, were three vigorous bikers who, it would turn
out, were male lawyers from Underhill on their way home after a daylong
seventy-five-mile sojourn into the Mad River Valley and back. They were on road
bikes, and when they heard Laurel screaming they stood up on their pedals and
started streaking toward the van. It was the sort of into-the-fire valor that is
uncommon these days. But what choice had they? Leave her to be abducted or
killed? How could any person do that? And so they rode forward, and the two men
raced into the front cab and slammed shut the doors. She thought they were going
to drive away. They would, but not instantly. First they spun the van into
reverse, trying to run her over and kill her. Leave her for dead. But she was,
fortunately, not directly behind the vehicle. They had dropped her just far
enough to the side that even clipped in she was able to claw the foot or foot
and a half away that she needed to save her life. They ran over and mangled both
bicycle wheels and bruised her left foot. But her bike shoe and the bicycle’s
front fork probably spared it from being crushed. Then the men sped off, the
vehicle’s wheels kicking small stones into her face and her eyes, while the
exhaust momentarily left her choking.
When she was able to breathe again, she finally threw up. She was sobbing, she
was bleeding, she was filthy. She was an altogether most pathetic little victim:
a girl trapped on the ground in her cleats like a turtle who has wound up on its
back in its shell. She would realize later that one of her attackers had broken
her left index finger at some point as he had tried to force her to loosen her
grip.
Gingerly, the lawyers turned her ankles so she could release herself from her
pedals and then helped her gently to her feet. The van was long gone, but Laurel
had memorized the license plate and within hours the men were apprehended. One
of them worked with bodybuilders at some hard-core weight-lifting club in
Colchester. He didn’t live far from where she had parked, and he had followed
her the week before. When he realized that the Jetta wagon with the girl with
the yellow hair that fell out the back of her helmet had returned, he saw his
chance. Laurel was the first woman he had tried to rape in Vermont, but he had
done this before in Washington and Idaho before coming east, and he had slashed
the wrists of a schoolteacher on her morning jog in Montana and left her to
bleed to death in a field of winter wheat. He had left her tied to a barbed-wire
fence, and the tattoos on his wrists- like many a tattoo- was a commemoration. A
piece of art that he wore like a cherished memento.
His partner, apparently, hadn’t had any idea that his new friend was a murderer:
He was a drifter who had come to Vermont and presumed now they were merely going
to have a little fun together at the expense of some young female bicyclist.
Afterward, Laurel went home to Long Island to recover, and she didn’t return to
college in Vermont until January. The spring semester. She took courses the
following summer to catch up- she was in Burlington that July anyway for her
assailants’ trials- and by the autumn she was back on the same schedule with the
rest of her classmates and would graduate with them in a couple of Junes. Still,
the trials had been difficult for her. They had been brief, but there had been
two to endure. It was the first time she had been back in the presence of either
of her assailants since the attack, and the first time she had studied their
faces in the flesh. The drifter, who would dramatically reduce his sentence by
testifying against the bodybuilder, had pale skin the color of cooked fish and a
nut-brown goatee that elongated a face already tending toward horsey. His hair
was completely gone on top and what remained was gray mixed in with the brown of
his small beard. Even though it was the summer, he wore a shirt with a high
collar to hide his tattoo. A part of his defense was the contention that he had
dropped acid before the attack and wasn’t in his right mind.
The bodybuilder was a lumberjack of a man who, while awaiting his trial, had
continued to work out in the exterior pen where the weights were stacked at the
prison in northwest Vermont-lifting, someone said, even on those frigid days
when he would have to brush snow off the Nautilus machines-but it was once more
those gray eyes that had struck Laurel. His head was shaved that summer, but she
gathered that the autumn before he had merely kept his hair cropped to a tight
bristle cut. After his sentencing in Vermont, he was extradited to Montana,
where he was tried and convicted of the schoolteacher’s murder. He was serving a
life sentence in a prison forty-five minutes from Butte. The drifter, following
his conviction, was incarcerated in the correctional facility just outside of
Saint Albans, relegated to the lowest, most demeaning rung of the prison in the
eyes of the inmates: the pod with the sex offenders.
Certainly the assault changed Laurel’s life in myriad ways, but the most obvious
manifestation was that she stopped biking. The cleats had saved her life, but
the sensation of being clipped in- of pedaling- brought her back to that dirt
road in Underhill, and she never wanted to go back to that place again. She had
always been a swimmer growing up, however, and so after a few years away from
the water she returned to the pool, taking comfort both in the miles she would
mark and the way the smell of chlorine in her hair instantly would remind her of
the safe haven of her childhood in West Egg.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from The Double Bind
by Chris Bohjalian
Copyright © 2007 by Chris Bohjalian.
Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Shaye Areheart Books
Copyright © 2007
Chris Bohjalian
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4000-4746-8
