She felt as if she would drive off the end of the world if she ever reached the horizon line. Light snow skittered and danced on the asphalt like water in a sizzling pan. For Serena, there was something big and intimidating about this place. If the desert was like a snake-quick, sneaky, and secretive-then the north land was like a bear, lumbering and huge, full of fur, fat, and muscle. Living here felt like trespassing on land reserved for giants.
She turned left on a dirt road marked with a Dead End sign and drove another mile to the wooded lot where Tony Wells kept his home. It was a 1970s-era rambler, and Maggie liked to point out that the house, like Tony, was brown. Tony's SUV, a camel-colored Lexus LX, was parked in the gravel driveway.
She pulled in behind the truck and got out of her car. It was a bitter morning, the temperature hovering around zero. She exhaled a cloud of steam. Despite the cold, she always lingered here before going inside. Partly she could roll up her day-to-day worries into a ball and leave them on the hood of the car, to be picked up later. Partly she could enjoy the solitude of this peaceful, beautiful spot. The woods were made up of young birch trees and spindly brush, a tightly knit web with a carpet of snow underneath. There was hardly an evergreen anywhere, so she could see for a surprising distance through the trees. There was one narrow trail cut into the forest and cross-country ski tracks running through the snow. Another wrinkle in the trees was made by a tiny creek, now frozen solid.
She made her way around to the side of the house. Tony had built an addition onto the back for his office, with a glass wall looking out on the woods. You entered through a side door into a windowless waiting room, decorated with Ikea furniture and drab watercolors, and then you came through to this magnificent space with a vaulted ceiling and a view that stretched forever.
Tony kept a video camera overhead, so he could see patients coming into the waiting room from his desk. Serena waved at the camera and sat down. She could hear the beat of heavy metal beyond the office door.
"Walk this way," Steven Tyler sang.
Serena laughed. Like Maggie, Tony was a fanatic for hard rock, although no one would guess it by looking at him. He was the kind of serious collector who haunted eBay to find odd paraphernalia, like a hypodermic used by one of the bad boys of Mötley Crüe to shoot up with cocaine, or a maintenance memorandum about damage to a Philadelphia arena following a Metallica concert. Both were framed and hung over the sofa, next to his three University of Minnesota diplomas. He could rattle off the stats for every album, concert tour, and Grammy by Aerosmith and took two months off each summer to follow bands around the country. The flip side was that, the rest of the year, he kept office hours seven days a week. Many of his patients were cops and victims recovering from sexual trauma, so he saw people at all hours.
It was almost impossible to get a rise out of Tony, but Serena enjoyed the challenge and tried to come up with something new at every visit. Today, she got up and did a mock 1960s rock dance in front of the camera, shaking her head so that her hair twirled and pumping her arms like pistons in a go-go move. Ten seconds later, the music cut off, and the door to the office unlocked with a soft click.
She strolled inside. Tony was seated at his big oak desk in front of the glass wall. The wilderness loomed behind him. He was writing on a yellow pad and didn't look up. "Funny," he said blandly.
Serena flopped down in a sofa on the opposite side of the room. "I thought so."
Tony got up from the desk and took a seat in a leather armchair near Serena. His eyes were bloodshot. "I suppose I'm going to get another lecture now about George Strait and Diamond Rio."
"A little steel guitar wouldn't kill you, Tony."
Tony harrumphed. He was about five feet ten, with a soft, well-fed physique. He and Serena were the same age, past thirty-five and on a downward slope toward forty. He had a professorial air about him, grave and concerned, which made his taste in music seem so unlikely. But you never could tell. She knew grandmothers who collected porn. Tony wore loose-fitting tan corduroys, a white dress shirt, and a chocolate-colored vest that matched his beard and his thinning crown of hair.
"You look tired, Tony."
His heavy eyelids drooped over his dark eyes more than usual. The bags under his eyes bulged like overpacked luggage. "Late-night phone call," he explained.
"Ah. Sorry."
"Coffee?" he asked.
"No thanks."
Tony went to a mahogany bureau with a mirrored bar. He had a coffeemaker plugged in on the bar, and he carefully poured from the pot into a black ceramic mug. He ripped open five sugar packets and emptied them into the mug and stirred.
"You want a little coffee with your sugar?" Serena asked.
"I like it sweet."
"Then why drink coffee? Have a Mountain Dew."
Tony sat down again and sipped his coffee. He reached inside his vest and withdrew a silver Cross pen, which he twirled between his fingers. "What do you want to talk about today?"
"Rape fantasies," Serena said.
Tony's face showed no surprise or disapproval. "That's a new topic for you."
"They're not mine."
"Oh?"
"I'm talking about Tanjy Powell."
He frowned. "I see."
"She's missing, you know."
"I know."
"I'd like to help Jonny figure out what happened to her."
Tony's face was pained. "I wish I could help you, but not this time."
"Why not?" Serena thought about it and then said, "Damn, is Tanjy a patient of yours, too?"
Tony sighed. "You know I can't say. But speaking hypothetically, if you were looking for a therapist in this city who specialized in mental issues related to sexual violence, who would you see?"
"I would see you, Tony, no one but you!" Serena gushed. She winked at him.
Tony said nothing at all, and his bearded face stared at her like a sleeping dog.
"As long as we're speaking hypothetically," she continued, "what can you tell me about a woman who fantasizes almost exclusively about rape?"
"That depends on the individual," he said.
"Let's say this woman is otherwise conservative and religious. Is that a contradiction?"
"Hypothetically?"
"Exactly." Serena smiled.
"No, that would be psychologically consistent," Tony said. "Rape fantasies are most common among women who are sexually repressed and have been taught that sex is wrong or a sin. They express themselves sexually through these fantasies because they don't have to feel guilty. The rape aspect removes their control. By being forced to have sex, they can enjoy it."
"That's pretty sick."
"Not really. Many professional women use these fantasies to adopt a submissive role when they have to be powerful and controlling in the rest of their lives. It can be a healthy way to relieve stress." He added, "Given your own background, of course, I understand why you would think this is abnormal."
"I can't believe men are turned on by that kind of woman."
Tony played with his pen and shook his head. "For some men, it's like the virgin and whore rolled into one. These women can be-not always, but can be-sexually explosive. They may also have a needy, vulnerable streak that appeals to some men. I don't need to tell you that men also entertain rape fantasies of their own."
"Okay, okay," Serena said, sighing. "I hear Eric came to see you on Wednesday night. What was that about?"
"Once again, I'd like to talk about it, but I can't."
"But?" Serena asked, sensing that he had more to say.