A Dance With the Devil: A True Story of Marriage to a Psychopath (2 page)

I thank those who fostered, encouraged, and mentored my writing, especially Gary and Gail Provost and Hannelore Hahn. They were there at the beginning of my writing journey and continue to be an inspiration to me. I thank Lois Winsen for her advice and editing skills, and Patricia Evans for her encouragement. I thank my literary agent Rachel Vater for her enthusiasm, support, and skill in getting my manuscript sold. I thank my literary agent Nancy Yost for monitoring my progress. I thank my three editors at Berkley: Samantha Mandor for acquiring my manuscript, Katie Day for improving my manuscript with minor changes, and Shannon Jamieson Vazquez for bringing further clarity to a fact-filled story and gracefully handling a first-time author. I also thank my copyeditor, Amy Schneider, for her meticulous work.

I am grateful for the support of my family and friends. I thank my husband, Rex, for his patience as I have pursued my publishing dream. And I wish to thank my departed golden retrievers, Gobi and Gaby, for giving me wet kisses at the times I needed them most.

Some scenes in this book are a compilation of events because everyday life strings out experiences. Facts are represented as accurately as possible, but some names and locations have been changed for privacy. As a survivor of this story, I realize now that I am the product of my upbringing and my life choices, good and bad. Throughout my journey I have encountered many life-altering decisions. What if I had turned away when I met John, instead of running into his arms? Where would I be now? Would I be the whole person I have become, or still a victim of my own ignorance of self? Because of my experiences, I have learned how to survive being a victim and find a truly fulfilling life without shame, and I have had the opportunity to recognize and overcome some of my deepest fears. It is my hope that by sharing my experiences, I can reach others who may see themselves in my story, and that they will find courage, strength, and hope for finding their own freedom before it is too late.

To Trust or Not to Trust

I was sitting at my office desk staring at my November day planner when I made what seemed like an innocuous decision—I would invite my recently reconnected friend Rex to the Justice for Murder Victims dinner dance in San Francisco. It was less than two weeks away. I reached for the telephone and paused as a pang of guilt reminded me that I didn’t like it when people changed plans on me at the last minute, and inviting Rex meant putting my mother off after she had been my date for the charity affair the last several years.
She won’t mind,
I rationalized.
She’ll be happy that I will have someone to whisk me around the dance floor.

My hand grasped the receiver and I shuddered. A sense of impending doom enveloped me. Before the receiver reached my ear, I dropped it back into its cradle as a paralyzing déjà vu washed over me like a ghost from the past, taunting me with memories best left undisturbed.
Was I reacting as I once did? Without abandon? Could I make the same mistake twice?
At least I had learned one lesson—I didn’t trust my decision to extend the invitation without bouncing the idea off a neutral party. I grabbed the receiver and quickly punched my friend Pam’s number.

“My plan feels too close to how I got started with John,” I fretted.

My stomach knotted at the memory.

“This is different,” Pam counseled. “Didn’t you have a good time at the lunch I arranged a couple of weeks ago?”

“Yes,” I conceded, “it was fun reconnecting with him at the Potato Barge.”

“You’ve known Rex since nineteen sixty-nine, even if you hadn’t seen him for eight years before the lunch. You know his history and he’s already a good friend. You can trust him.”

We discussed my feelings of impending doom, and in the end I had to agree with her that I could trust Rex. I knew his background. As former co-workers, we had learned a lot about each other during the six years we tested production samples in the analytical lab at the Excelsior Chemical plant in Martinez, California. Rex, a chemist, transferred from the Midwest in 1969. He specialized in the emerging technology of gas chromatography, and Pam and I occasionally worked directly with him when we rotated into his area as lab assistants. We lost contact when he transferred to another company.

“You’re right,” I said. “Rex is a kind man without hidden agendas.”

I thanked Pam for her friendship and closed by saying that she had helped bolster my resolve to ask Rex to the dinner dance. I had barely returned the receiver to its cradle when the phone jangled with a double ring indicating an outside call, startling me into a nervous jump. I laughed.
Another one of my mother’s endearing traits that she passed along to me,
I thought.

My reverie was short lived. The call was from my divorce attorney, who let me know that my now ex-husband had just thrown another monkey wrench into what I thought was a final property settlement. My shoulders tightened. I slammed the receiver down and took a brisk walk to regain my composure.

Later that afternoon I called Rex. He gladly accepted my invitation and, because of logistics, we decided that I would drive.
This is just a date with a friend,
I thought to myself as I hung up the phone. Then I called my mom.

On a brisk, clear Sunday evening Rex escorted me to the flowing staircase in Gabbiano’s, an upscale restaurant tucked between the San Francisco Ferry Building and the Bay Bridge. Rex looked dapper in his dark suit that complemented my one-piece black velvet and crepe jumpsuit. I grabbed my point-and-shoot camera from my purse and solicited a passing waiter to snap a picture of us before we climbed the stairs to the dining room overlooking the warmly lit Bay Bridge and twinkling city skyline. We mingled with the guests—all advocates for victim justice—and I proudly introduced Rex as an old friend. Later he shared that it felt strange to be in a group where murder had touched everyone’s lives.

Outside on the deck near the shimmering water, over dinner with flickering candlelight, waltzing around the shiny dance floor, sipping mellow Napa Valley cabernet, we rediscovered our common interests. We laughed at lab episodes from the past, like passing Rex around to the ladies in the darkroom at the annual Christmas party or him watching me as I cleaned the inside of the fume hoods wearing a short skirt. He was there when I took my two younger sisters skiing, gladly escorting us to the company ski cabin because his wife and my first husband didn’t want to have anything to do with swooshing down slippery slopes. It was all in good fun. At that time we were both married to others and had no designs on crossing the other person’s boundaries.

The Ferry Building’s ornate clock tower chimed eleven p.m.—not quite the midnight from Cinderella fame but time to head for home nonetheless. I selfishly didn’t want the evening to end. I had rediscovered an admirable friend, someone I could talk with freely, and someone with whom I shared a past—a respectable past without any secrets. As I pulled onto the lower deck of the Bay Bridge I remembered another night—my university graduation night—when the fog was held at bay outside the Golden Gate Bridge and bright stars illuminated the dark sky.

“There’s a great view of the city from Treasure Island,” I said. “The night’s so clear. Would you like to stop for a few minutes?”

“Just a few,” he laughed. “I have to get up at three thirty in the morning to get ready for work.”

I parked the car in the visitors’ lot outside the main gate. We got out, climbed onto two rocks, and sat next to each other, savoring the sparkling lights of the city spread before us from the Bay Bridge to the Golden Gate Bridge, like a scrumptious dessert.

“It’s a great shot,” Rex said, breaking the silence. “Too bad we don’t have our thirty-five-millimeter SLR cameras with us.”

I loved that he shared my interest in photography beyond the popular point-and-shoot cameras. “We’ll have to plan better next time.” I laughed. “And bring warmer coats.”

I hugged my arms and rubbed them to generate some warmth. I couldn’t help but feel like we were two awkward teenagers on a first date at the movies. We shifted a little closer together. Our shoulders touched. Then slowly, and gently, Rex wrapped his arm around my shoulders and I snuggled into his embrace. We sat tranquil for a few moments. It felt good to be able to trust a man again.

“I almost didn’t ask you to come tonight,” I whispered. “The scenario reminded me too much of how I started dating John.”

Rex didn’t answer, but I could feel his sympathy as he squeezed me a little tighter. In the warmth of his embrace, I was drawn back to another time and another place, the most dangerous in my life, when misplaced trust had escalated into a nightmare and almost took my life. Of course, I didn’t imagine any such thing at the time. Back then, it had started just like this, on what should have been nothing more than a carefree date arranged by a friend. . . .

Passion

Prince Charming

“Thanks for coming,” Debbie said, giving my arm an extra little squeeze of appreciation.

“Hey,” I said, “A promise is a promise.” She had called me earlier that day while I was at work, preoccupied with testing samples in my analytical lab at the Excelsior Chemical Company. When she’d asked me to round out the double date for a dinner party at her house that evening, she wouldn’t take no for an answer, so here I was.

I knew what Debbie was up to. Five months earlier, in February 1981, after I split up with a man who was a close friend of Debbie and her husband, Ted, Debbie somehow saw me as her “perfect single woman” friend. Somehow she’d managed to extract a promise from me: that I would help her keep her dinner table evenly set.

The eternal optimist, I wasn’t opposed to meeting new men myself. When I asked about who my date for the night would be, she answered, “Older than you, but you don’t have to think of him as a date. The point is, I know you’ll find him interesting. His great-grandfather was Admiral Peary. Remember? Peary . . . North Pole? John works over at Vestico with Ted. You’ll like him.”

I wasn’t holding my breath that we’d be a love match, and I was exhausted from working long shifts, but Debbie had a way of talking me into social events, and so I found myself agreeing. Besides, what harm could it cause? It was only dinner.

By the time I’d arrived and she’d greeted me warmly at the door, I found myself relaxing.

“I knew I could count on you,” she said happily, leading me into her living room. “Well, I owe you, big time.” Debbie glanced toward the kitchen, then quickly leaned over and whispered in my ear. “Don’t be put off when you see John. He showed up in a foam neck brace and said he’ll tell us all what happened.” She pulled away, then quickly returned to my ear. “I forgot to mention that he wears a toupee, so don’t stare.” She smiled and, in her sweet normal voice, said, “I’ll be back in a minute.”
This should be interesting,
I thought.
I’ve never met anyone who wears a toupee.

She hurried off to the kitchen, where the men had already begun preparing drinks. I sat down on the sofa and looked around. The brass, ceramics, paintings, and furniture that Debbie had collected during her time in Taiwan never ceased to impress me, and as usual reminded me of how long it had been since I’d gone off to somewhere exciting. I did a fair amount of traveling for Excelsior, but the places I was sent to could hardly be considered exotic.

“Well, hello there,” I heard a deep voice call. I turned to see John Perry emerging from the kitchen, carrying two drinks. Ted and Debbie followed. Debbie winked at me.

Despite the medical brace around his neck, John was a dashing figure . . . tall, light brown hair, good looking with a ruddy complexion and mischievous blue eyes. He was well dressed, too, in his tweed jacket and designer silk tie. He strode confidently across the living room. “Rum and Coke for the lady,” he said, offering me the drink with an impish grin. Debbie was right, I thought. This man was already interesting to me . . . neck brace, toupee, and all.

“Thanks,” I said, taking the drink. I felt my cheeks flush as he looked me over. I was glad I’d decided to wear my red knit dress tonight. Everyone said red was my best color, and suddenly that seemed important.

Meanwhile, Debbie had set a tray of appetizers on the glass coffee table. John, I noticed, had already fixed a plate and was holding it out for me to take. I thanked him again.

“Debbie,” he said, “you didn’t tell me your friend was such a looker.”

My cheeks burned once more. John settled into a nearby chair, never taking his eyes off me. This was not going the way I had expected. Trying to exert some control, I blurted out, “Why don’t you tell me something about yourself?” And he did. He started out with an apology for the blue-foam neck brace and explained that a baggage cart loaded with heavy equipment had recently plowed into his neck and back while he stood waiting for a taxi at the Mexico City airport. “But it can’t stop an old Navy man,” he said. He launched into his military career and told me that after his last Vietnam tour in 1969, he’d been denied field duty. Because he hadn’t relished the notion of a desk job, retirement was the better choice. He’d been a captain in the Navy, but at retirement received a tombstone promotion to rear admiral.

“Tombstone?” I asked.

“That’s when an officer, at retirement, is honored by a raise of one rank. It depends, of course, on the officer’s service record. Obviously, it provides higher retirement pay.” He raised his glass.

“Guess you got that promotion because of the Congressional Medal of Honor, huh, John?” Ted asked.

I leaned forward. “You received the Medal of Honor?”

We were off and running. John talked about how the VC had swarmed over his unit’s position. They’d been completely outnumbered, casualties incredibly high. He was nearly killed trying to save several of his men. John’s hand slid to the side of his chest and rested there as he continued. “A fifty-millimeter machine gun opened me up good.” He patted the spot on his side. “Real good. Right here.” He sighed. “Lost a lung, you know. Still carry the scar.”