by Lisa Gardner
“You idiot. Then there will be even more police in the area.”
“If we could just take a break.” The mistress pleading. “Even for a couple of weeks. Until the immediate attention dies down.”
“It doesn’t work like that. You know it doesn’t. But I think you’re correct.” A small rustling sound. The Bad Man shifting around the room. “The best way to get the police to leave is to provide them with the answer they seek.”
“No.” The voice is so soft this time, I’m not sure who’s spoken. A noise. I can’t place it. Then again: “No. Please no.”
“They’re looking for a monster,” the Bad Man murmurs. “Yes, absolutely. Let’s give them one.”
Fresh goose bumps. I’m in my mother’s kitchen. I’m in the basement hall. I’m a little girl. I’m a voiceless servant.
I am frozen in terror over what is going to happen next.
“No, no—”
“Shhh . . .”
“NO!”
A gurgle. A sob. A scrabbling sound, like claws against stone. The house shifts uncomfortably around me. I can almost hear its mournful sigh, as I step out of the shadows and force myself toward the heavy wooden doors. As I peer through the cracked opening, into the room.
The Bad Man stands tall, a terrible, hulking form.
The master cowers at his feet.
The mistress, on the other hand . . .
The Bad Man has moved behind her. He holds a bloodred rope in his hand. A sash, I realize, from the mistress’s embroidered silk bathrobe. He has the tie wrapped tight around her neck, lifting up, up, up, her neck at an impossible angle.
I stare at her. I watch as her face goes purple. As she twitches and shakes and trembles, the incredible strength of the Bad Man lifting her all the way off the floor. He is not human. No one who can do that can be human.
I don’t look away. I force myself to bear witness as she finally gasps. Her head sags forward. The monster releases her, and just like that her body crumples to the floor.
The master is still hunkered low, crying pitifully.
I feel a curious sense of relief. That she is gone, that the Bad Man has finally turned on one of his own. Yet I’m shivering uncontrollably.
The mistress, the almighty mistress, is dead. And the Bad Man killed her as easily as snapping a twig.
“Get up,” the Bad Man orders the master.
Will he kill the master next? Good God, what will become of the rest of us, if there’s only the Bad Man left?
I back away then. Turn and flee awkwardly toward my room, gulping for breath. But it’s not air I need. It’s words. Words and letters and sounds. Something, anything to communicate, because the police lady will be coming again, and this time . . .
I need to think. I need to plan.
The end is coming, but not like I thought it would.
Run. I hear my mother’s voice.
I want to be a little girl again. I want to hold out my arms and have my mother scoop me up and hold me close. I want to hear her voice murmur my name. I want to be our pack of two, mamita and chiquita.
I want things I can never have.
Because the Bad Man took them from me.
I duck inside my room just in time to hear the heavy wooden doors groan open, then footsteps once more hit the hall. The Bad Man. Not even a break in his stride as he passes my room, heads upstairs.
The house shudders into silence.
I remain leaning against the wall of my tiny room, breathing hard. One finger for yes. Two for no. Three for maybe. And four fingers? Five?
There must be a way to communicate. There has to be a way to confess all to the blond detective who offered help. I must find it.
Because the end is coming. And name or no name, voice or no voice, I’m going to make the Bad Man pay.
Or die trying.
CHAPTER 21
D.D.
D.D. RETIRED TO HER HOTEL room to spend the rest of the evening researching brain injuries and speech impairment. She felt she’d barely fallen asleep when her phone rang.
“Wake up,” Kimberly announced.
“Huh?”
“Sheriff just called me. We got another body.”
“What?”
“The mayor’s wife. You interviewed her yesterday morning, right?”
“What time is it?”
“Just after four.”
“In the morning?”
“Meet you in the lobby in fifteen. There’s no way Martha Counsel’s death isn’t related to our investigation. Grab coffee. Get hopping. We have a long day ahead.”
* * *
—
THE SHERIFF WAS ALREADY WAITING out front when Kimberly and D.D. pulled up to the Mountain Laurel B&B. His uniform was wrinkled and D.D. would bet he’d once again spent the night in his office. He nodded somberly in greeting, then led them up the front steps.
“According to the mayor, he woke up shortly around three to an empty bed. He went looking for his wife. He called nine-one-one the moment he found her. Dispatch contacted me directly. I arrived first, secured the scene. No one has touched anything.”
The lobby was ablaze with lights as they entered. They were at least a good hour from sunrise, D.D. thought, and the inn still held the hush of middle of the night. She looked around automatically for the mayor’s “niece,” but didn’t see any sign of the girl anywhere.
Mayor Howard was sitting in the green and yellow sunroom, staring at the table blankly. He wore a white, monogrammed bathrobe and appeared to have aged a hundred years. Red-rimmed eyes, haggard expression. If he was acting, D.D. thought, then he was one of the best she’d ever seen.
As she watched, he went to take a sip of coffee. The delicate porcelain cup shook so badly, he spilled half the contents before setting it down again.
“Down the hall, third room on the right,” the sheriff instructed Kimberly and D.D. “I’ll stay with him.”
D.D. and Kimberly swapped glances, then followed his instructions. D.D. still didn’t understand what they were going to discover, but it clearly wasn’t good.
Third door on the right turned out to be the end of the hall. In the mental map D.D. was creating in her head, this room occupied the back, right corner of the historic home. Perhaps the former master bedroom, she thought, as they walked into the sweeping space.
A massive canopy bed occupied the middle of the room. And there, dangling from the top of the wooden frame, hung Martha Counsel, clad in a long white nightgown and open red silk bathrobe, her body swaying slightly from some unfelt breeze.
Neither Kimberly nor D.D. spoke a word. They entered the room. Walked around the bed.
The method of hanging appeared to be a red silk sash, probably the tie from the woman’s bathrobe. Judging by appearance, Martha had fashioned the noose around her neck, attached the other end to the wooden canopy frame, then climbed onto the king-sized bed and . . . What? Stepped off?
Had she clutched at the silk as it pulled taut? Struggled to regain a toehold on the bed to ease the strain?
D.D. moved close enough to study the woman’s hands without touching. She didn’t see a mark on them. Same with the elaborately made-up bed. The green embroidered comforter appeared perfectly smooth.
As if Martha hadn’t suffered any doubts or second thoughts. She’d simply gotten up in the middle of the night, left her husband’s side, and come here to do what she felt must be done. But why?
“There’s a note,” Kimberly murmured. She nodded toward the bedside table. D.D. crossed to where she stood.
“‘Forgive me the harm I did,’” D.D. read out loud. “‘I was selfish to live at another’s expense. God have mercy on my soul.’”
D.D. glanced at Kimberly. “Who types a suicide note?”
“Someone with bad penmanship?” Kimberly shrugged.
“Or too emotional to write?”
“I don’t like it.”
“I’m not exactly thrilled either. Which is why we’ll be having the medical examiner conduct a full inquest.”
D.D. looked around the room. “No sign of a struggle,” she murmured. “And not a mark on the body. I mean, silk noose aside.”
“And the inn’s guests are still asleep in their rooms. Which would seem to indicate no loud arguments or violent disturbances.”
“Look at her neck,” D.D. said, indicating toward the body. “You can see some bruising along the edges of the bathrobe tie, consistent with hanging.”
Kimberly nodded; she looked as conflicted as D.D.
A suicide felt too neat and tidy. And yet, a cursory exam of both the room and the body didn’t reveal anything obvious to counter the notion. Sometimes the simplest explanation was the right explanation. Detectives just didn’t like it.
“You ever walk in on a hanging where a loved one didn’t try to cut down the body?” Kimberly asked now.
“No. First instinct is always to get the person down. Then again . . .” D.D. indicated to Martha Counsel’s bloated purple face. “She’s clearly past saving.”
Kimberly nodded, pursed her lips, walked around the room again. “I don’t like it. But I have no good reason not to like it.”
“Agreed.”
“I wonder what she meant about being wrong to live at another’s expense.” D.D. shrugged.
“One way to find out. Come on, let’s deal with the husband.” Kimberly led the way back down the hall to the sunroom.
D.D. thought she caught a flash of movement. A person, disappearing down the hall, but it was too fleeting to be sure. She wondered again about Martha’s niece.
Was the mayor really the kind of guy to brew his own cup of coffee? Somehow, she doubted it.
Howard was still sitting at the table. The sheriff was positioned across from him. Neither man was talking.
“Is there someone we can call for you?” Kimberly asked, her voice surprisingly gentle considering her skeptical tone earlier.
The mayor looked up blearily. “She was my world,” he said.
D.D. walked behind him, brushing his shoulder. She thought she caught a whiff of whiskey, but couldn’t be sure. “Fresh coffee?” she asked.
He had to turn the other way to answer her, which gave Kimberly the chance to lean closer for her own inspection. Divide and conquer. Policing 101.
“I’m fine, thank you,” the mayor said. His voice sounded hollow, a faint shadow of the sure figure he’d been just the day before.
“More people will be arriving,” D.D. said calmly. “Officers, evidence techs, the coroner. It’s only a matter of time before your guests wake up and start asking questions, as well.”
“Evidence techs?” Howard echoed.
“Perhaps I could fetch your niece to help. Which room . . .”
The mayor finally roused himself. “No need. I just . . . there’s a button. Push the button.” He got up abruptly, crossed to the far wall, where D.D. now noticed a swinging door that probably led to the kitchen. There appeared to be a panel beside it, for summoning the hired help. The mayor pushed a black button. Then without saying another word, or awaiting a response, he returned to the table.
“Do you believe your wife killed herself?” Kimberly asked softly.
“She hasn’t . . . she hasn’t been herself. Not since.” The mayor swallowed heavily. He picked up his coffee cup. Once again, his hand trembled so violently he had to set it back down. “Not since the discovery, a month ago,” he whispered.
“The discovery of the first grave?” Kimberly clarified.
“Yes.”
“How was Martha not herself?” the sheriff prodded softly.
“She seemed distracted. Upset. And at night . . . she used to have a single glass of sherry. But lately . . . I knew something was bothering her. I tried to ask. I did!” The mayor glanced up abruptly, his eyes wild. “But she wouldn’t talk to me. She wouldn’t!”
The connecting door at the other end of the room suddenly swung open. The girl appeared, wearing her blue maid’s uniform and bearing a silver coffeepot. Her eyes fell immediately on D.D. She paused infinitesimally, then recovered herself, moving forward as if nothing was amiss. She dragged her right leg slightly, and her face appeared as pale and bruised as the mayor’s. Had she seen the body? Did she know what her “aunt” had supposedly done?
Or was she once again just the hired help? Summoned to serve and knowing better than to question it?
Now, she wordlessly topped off the mayor’s coffee cup, while studiously avoiding D.D.’s gaze. She set the pot in the middle of the table, then turned back toward the kitchen.
“Poor thing,” the mayor said, looking right at D.D. “First her mother, and now this.”
“We’ll want to question everyone who was present this evening,” D.D. started, before the mayor’s harsh laugh interrupted.
“Ask her questions? She can’t answer. How cruel can you be? Besides, she doesn’t know anything. When I first found the body . . . I started screaming. She came. Cook, too. They may be staff, but we are also family. We all need time to grieve.”
With the mayor’s attention fully on her, D.D. had no choice but to nod. She would love to force the issue, follow the girl directly into the kitchen and play their one-finger-for-yes, two-fingers-for-no game. But the truth was, the girl was a minor and her uncle ostensibly her legal guardian. D.D. had no grounds to pursue the matter without Mayor Howard’s explicit permission.
The girl disappeared through the swinging door. She’d had her left hand down by her side, but D.D. couldn’t tell if she was holding out any fingers or not. With all eyes watching, D.D. forced herself to focus once more on Mayor Howard.
“Why do you think your wife was off?”
The mayor didn’t answer right away, staring instead at the fresh steam rising up from his coffee cup. “Martha was born with only one kidney,” he said presently, his voice rough. “Twenty years ago, that kidney started to fail. Martha went on the transplant list, but you know how it is. So many who need organs, so few that are available.”
Across from the mayor, the sheriff nodded encouragement.
“We looked . . .” The mayor cleared his throat, glanced up. “We looked at foreign options. Traveling overseas where for a price such surgeries can be performed. But before long, Martha was too sick for even that.”
The sheriff nodded again.
“Martha knew a local doctor. A friend from childhood. Dr. Gregory Hatch. He had a practice in Atlanta. He said he could help her.”
“How?” Kimberly prodded.
The mayor fingered his coffee cup. He wouldn’t look at them anymore. “Martha told me not to ask too many questions. She said it was better if I didn’t know,” he whispered. “But Gregory, he got privileges at the health clinic just north of here. And Martha paid him a series of visits. Testing. Lots of testing.” The mayor smiled grimly. “You can’t really hide that. Then, she went away for a month. To a wellness clinic, she said. Of course, we both knew she was lying.
“But she was my wife and I loved her. And I wanted her to live. So when she gave me a bunch of paperwork to fill out for a ‘designated donation,’ I didn’t argue.”
“You donated a kidney to your wife?” Kimberly interrupted.
“I filled out paperwork that said I was donating a kidney to my wife,” the mayor said slowly. “But I couldn’t. I wasn’t a match. I knew that. She knew that. As for the paperwork . . .”
“Your wife got a kidney,” D.D. filled in. “This Dr. Hatch did the operation.”
The mayor finally looked at them, his eyes red rimmed and exhausted.
“She came home with meds, lots and lots of meds. You’ll find them in the bathroom. Anti-rejection meds. She still takes th
em faithfully. And she’s been healthy ever since.”
No one spoke right away. Finally, Kimberly did the honors. “Mayor Howard, where did your wife get the kidney?”
“I don’t know.”
“But it wasn’t from you.”
“It wasn’t from me.”
“But she got a transplant, performed by this Dr. Hatch.”
“He saved her life.”
“I remember a Gregory Hatch,” the sheriff spoke up. “Didn’t he pass away . . .”
“He died eight years ago,” the mayor supplied.
“When did he perform the operation?” Kimberly pressed.
“Around fifteen years ago.”
D.D. glanced at Kimberly. According to Dr. Jackson, Lilah Abenito had been killed fifteen years ago. Then there was their mass grave, which included at least one skeleton with signs of medical care. Yesterday, D.D. and the sheriff had told the mayor and his wife that the threat to the community was old. They’d even mentioned that the remains were skeletal. But they’d never been so specific as to say the first grave was from fifteen years ago. That was the kind of detail investigative taskforces kept to themselves.
Meaning, if Martha had connected the dots between her transplant operations and the graves in the woods, she had to have some idea where her kidney had come from. Or, at the very least, what had happened to her donor in the end.
I was selfish to live at another’s expense.
Was that what they had stumbled upon, then? An illegal organ transplant scheme? Such things happened. As the mayor had said, the demand for organs was high, the supply low. Black market economies had developed from less.
“My wife was a good woman,” the mayor stated now. “She cared about the community. Whatever happened, whatever she did . . . Fear can make a person desperate. She did her best to make up for her sin. You can ask anyone. She performed so many good works, helped out with so many families during the lean times, gave and gave and gave . . .”
