Speaking in Tongues

baby-sitting.”
    “She said that?” Megan gasped.
    “In fairness she said you were very mature and didn’t need a lot of hand-holding.”
    “How would she know?” Megan muttered.
    Matthews swayed toward her but the coldness returned to her eyes and she asked, “But why the fuck did you kidnap me?”
    “Because I wanted to give you a second chance, Megan.”
    “Kidnapping me? What kind of chance is that?”
    He looked down and rocked back and forth on his feet, moving a good six inches closer to her. “Oh, Megan, yes, I kidnapped you. But I’d never hurt you. That was the last thing on my mind.” If she’d seen the room, she’d probably also seen the kitchen. He said, “I can prove it. I’ll show you the kitchen. It’s filled with food that you like. I found out what you liked and I bought a lot of it.”
    She nodded. Her defenses slipped a bit more. “You were the one following me for the past couple weeks.”
    “That’s right. I followed you. And I talked to people about you too. Teachers, students. And the more I learned about you, the more I couldn’t understand your parents. You’re creative, you’re funny, you’re pretty, you have a sense of humor, you were artistic . . . You were everything a teenage girl ought to be. Why didn’t they want you? Your parents, I mean?”
    Her lip began to tremble. She wiped tears.
    “It was so unfair,” he whispered. “I wanted to give you the love that they never did. Parental love, I’m speaking of. I hope you know that . . . I think you’re beautiful but I don’t desire you physically.” He nodded toward her padded cell. “I could have done that when you were unconscious if I’d wanted to.”
    Her eyes told him that she understood it. That she’d checked her body for tenderness, for moisture.
    But the eyes hardened again. She asked, “But there’s more, isn’t there? There’s another side to it.”
    He smiled. “Oh, you’re smart, Megan. You’re very smart. Yes, there’s another side. I wanted another chance too. I told you about my son. The problems I mentioned? They were pretty serious. My wife . . . she drank and had a Valium habit when she was pregnant. I tried to get her to stop but she wouldn’t. My son had permanent brain damage . . . Oh, I wanted a normal child. Someone I could spend time with. Have fun with. Someone I could spoil.” He remembered something Bett had told him earlier that evening. “I wanted someone to play games with, to spend Christmas and Easter with, Thanksgiving. To make oatmeal and pancakes for. To hang out with on Sunday in sweats and sneakers and read the paper and rake leaves.”
    From somewhere, he summoned a tear.
    “You wanted me to be your daughter,” Megan said softly.
    “Yes! But there was no way you would’ve agreed on your own. Or even listened to me. You would’ve thought I was some kind of crank and called the police. So I did what I had to. I waited until I had a chance—Dr. Hanson’smother getting sick—and I arranged with him to see you.”
    “That part was true?”
    “Oh, yes. Of course it’s true. We’re friends, Hanson and me.” He smiled indulgently. “Though I think I’m a better therapist than he is. I get right to the core of the problem.”
    “Yeah, you sure as hell do.” She offered a faint smile in return.
    “You didn’t like those letters, I know. But I had to make you see how angry you were with your parents. I had to make you see the truth.”
    “That’s why you made me write them?”
    “Yes.”
    “What did you do with them? Did you send them?”
    He frowned. “The letters? No, I threw them out. Writing them was for you, Megan. I thought maybe, here, we could get to know each other for a while. I’d hoped you’d stay for a few weeks, a month. If it worked out, fine. We could move to San Francisco, you could start college there in the fall.”
    He’d moved another few feet closer to her. He was slumped, diminished, looking mournfully at the floor. Matthews had decided how she’d die: He’d strangle her. Her eyes would grow wide and he’d stare at them, drink them in as she died. Pull the glass knife from her hand and get a grip on her neck. Squeeze and squeeze and squeeze until the tip of her protruding tongue stopped quivering. And squeeze some more after that.
    It was the way Peter had killed the slut who’d tried to seduce him. Maybe it was the way Peterhimself had died. The body was so mutilated the prison doctor hadn’t been