Then I hear a cough, a single, soft echo somewhere to my right.
I spin and shine the light haphazardly, my pulse racing. Nothing, I don’t see anything but a closet and a—
I jump as the beam of light lowers toward the floor—a figure, an immobile figure, something, someone lying prone on the floor.
A woman, I think, from the long hair spilling out onto the basement floor. But where are the eyes and nose and—
“Oh, God,” I mumble, moving closer, training the small beam of yellow light on her. Her face is bloodied and purple, her eyes swollen shut, her nose askew, her mouth a pulpy mash.
I bend down beside her. Her body is rising and falling, wet, raspy breaths. I touch her shoulder and she recoils. I run the flashlight over her body, her bloody white shirt and blue jeans. The blood looks like spatter to my untrained eye; it doesn’t look like she was stabbed or shot—beaten terribly about the face but not the body.
“Mary? I’m with the FBI. You’re safe now, sweetie.”
Above me, the sounds of thunderous footfalls as the cavalry arrives, the FBI sending its team in.
Mary’s head moves ever so slightly, some sign of acknowledgment.
“Do you know where he is, Mary?” I ask. “That’s okay,” I say when she doesn’t respond. I rub her arm gently. “We’re going to get you help.”
Footsteps pounding down the basement stairs now, larger beams of light from the Maglites the agents use.
“We need a medic!” I call back. I begin to rise, to show myself to the agents, when Mary’s hand reaches out and takes mine. I put both of my hands in hers and lower my head close to her face.
“Don’t…leave me,” she whispers.
“I won’t, honey, I promise,” I say, my voice choking, my eyes filling with tears. “I’m right here. I won’t ever let anybody hurt you again.”
Mary begins to tremble furiously, a high-pitched whine escaping her throat. I put one arm over her back and my hand under her cheek, cradling her while HRT agents storm the basement with beams of light and an army’s worth of firepower.
“It’s going to be okay,” I say with a conviction I do not feel. “He can’t hurt you anymore.”
97
I OPEN my eyes with a start, the noisy explosion vaporizing the moment I’m awake. The dreams have been like that lately, less about the consuming flames and more about the powerful explosion that creates them.
I squint in the powerful lighting. I don’t know why hospitals do that with the overhead lights. When Mary Laney opens her eyes, she’ll barely be able to see.
And she will open her eyes, or so the doctors say. The bandages covering her bruised face and the IV drip snaked into her arm show a damaged woman, but the doctors say there’s normal brain activity, which is reassuring, I guess, though any time someone has to look at your brain waves, it can’t be a good thing.
Mary has a concussion and shattered nose. Her teeth are fine and she doesn’t appear to have suffered any other facial fractures, just deep purple bruising that leaves her with slits for eyes, a swollen mouth and cheeks.
I watch the rise and fall of her chest, listen for the soft sounds of her breathing. When she awakens, we will pump her for information. We tried already, after we found her, but all she could speak was incoherent babble. She was in shock, the doctors said, traumatized. They treated her bruises and did a few tests and then ordered at least two hours’ sleep before we could talk to her again.
Meanwhile, agents are scouring Graham’s house. They found tires in the back of the house that he’d been burning, and gas canisters and gas masks—that’s how he forced smoke into the victims’ lungs to mimic the fire’s smoke. They found all sorts of surgical instruments for the torture he inflicted and medical treatises about surgery. A search of his Internet activity shows that he frequented torture-porn sites and sought additional medical information. It also revealed that he’d visited the Facebook pages of many of his victims, never “friending” them but just checking out their information so he knew where they lived, where they worked, all sorts of factual data that would help pin them down before he went after them.
And it’s clear that he learned how to set his fires from the Internet, a site that explained precisely how to rig a time-delayed explosion: he used tape to dangle a balloon down from the ceiling until it was suspended over a lit candle. The balloon was full of gasoline. Beneath the candle, he placed a pile of paper. After Graham had left, the candle’s flame melted the balloon, causing the gas to splash over the flame and spread to the papers. Ka-boom. By the time firefighters arrived, the string would be long incinerated, and traces of the candle would remain, leading to the conclusion that the fire was caused by a candle that fell over onto newspaper or magazines.
His driver’s license photo has now been shown everywhere, on every cable news station and on every online news source in the nation. Everyone in the country is seeing that photo of an overweight, nearly bald, beady-eyed man named Winston Graham.
He’ll look different, of course. He’ll have hair and probably a mustache, change the eyebrows, wear glasses, whatever—he won’t make himself obvious to anyone.
But where did he go? Where can he go?
We have no idea. All we know is that he withdrew more than two hundred thousand dollars from his bank account, so he’s got the cash to do a lot of things.
The door opens, and Books walks in. He nods at me with an icy glare and looks at Mary.
“It’s not two hours yet,” I say.
“I thought maybe she woke up on her own.”
“I told you I’d call you as soon as she did.”
“You told me a lot of things,” he says, an introductory sentence to a speech that, something tells me, he’s rehearsed. “You told me if I took this case, you’d follow my directions, and you didn’t.”
“I don’t want to talk about that,” I say.
“Emmy, I gave you a direct order and you disobeyed it. You could have gotten yourself killed. You could have gotten Mary killed. You could have set off an explosion that got all of us—”
“But I didn’t, okay, Harrison? I didn’t. So shut up already.”
Books, still standing, lets the silence work for him. We both know what’s coming next.
“I don’t care,” I say. “Kick me off the case. Fire me. Whatever. I’m not going to stop looking for him.”
“Oh, I am taking you off this case,” Books says. “I can’t fire you. But I assume Dickinson will take care of that. He’s already asked for a full report about your actions. There were only about two hundred sworn law enforcement officers as witnesses. And I’m not going to stand in his way. You deserve to be fired.”
I put my forehead against the rail of Mary’s bed, the same position I’d been in when I dozed off a moment ago.
“So,” Books says.
“So what?”
“So you’re off this case.”
“I heard you the first time.”
“So you have to leave.”
I look up at him. “I’m not leaving. I promised her I wouldn’t leave her.”
Books gives me that look he always gives me when I’m being stubborn. “You held her hand all the way into the ambulance and to the hospital. You held her hand when the doctors were treating her, which I still can’t believe they let you do. But then, trying to talk you out of something is like trying to reason with a brick wall.”
“When she wakes up, she’s going to see me standing here, Books. I’m not leaving. Get used to it.”
“Get used to it. Get used to it! Same old Emmy, doing whatever you want, whenever you want, however you want.” Books’s eyebrows start their familiar twitch. His neck glows crimson. He’d like to drag me out of the room by my hair.
And he might do just that. But he doesn’t.
Because at that moment, a sharp intake of air comes from Mary Laney.
98
MARY LANEY leans forward in bed as she expels a violent cough, thick with p
hlegm and dried blood. I use the automated buttons to angle her bed upward so she’s at about sixty degrees, and then I hit the button for the nurse.
“We’re here, Mary,” I say, taking her hand and caressing it. “You’re in a hospital and you’re safe.”
Once her coughing attack abates, Mary holds completely still. Her eyes, mere slits through purple-black bruising, stare forward.
She is remembering everything now.
And then she lets out a low moan. Her shoulders begin to tremble, and tears find their way down her swollen cheeks.
“He can’t hurt you anymore,” I say.
“Is he—is he—did—you…” She spits out words through halting breaths, through her gentle sobs.
“We haven’t caught him yet,” says Books. “But we will. We need your help to do that, Mary.”
Still weeping, Mary inspects herself, looking at her arms and legs, patting her hands down her torso as if searching herself for a weapon. Then she gently brings her fingers to her face, her horribly bruised and puffy face.
“I’m Special Agent Bookman and this is Emmy Dockery, a research analyst with the FBI. I’m sorry, but we really need to talk to you right now.”
After a while, Mary nods, and her body stops heaving with sobs. I hand her a tissue and she blots her face gently. Then she looks at me.
“You…found me,” she says. “It was you. You…didn’t leave me.”
I take her hand and give her a soft smile. “You’re going to be okay.”
“What did he…what did Winston do? Did he k-kill…?”
I look at Books, who nods. “He’s wanted for murder. A string of murders.”
She takes that news badly. Judging from the last Graham Session we read, where Graham talked to her while he bloodied her face, she must have had some hint that he’d done evil things.
“Okay, everyone back off,” says a doctor, pushing his way into the room.
“Real quick, Mary,” says Books. “This is important. Did he give any clue as to where he was going? Or what he was doing next? Anything at all?”
Books holds off the doctor with a stiff-arm.
Mary clears her throat. “He said…he said…”
“I have to insist on treating my patient,” says the doctor.
“This is important,” says Books. “Go ahead, Mary. What did he say?”
Mary swallows with some effort. Her eyes close.
“He said you’ll never catch him,” she says. “He said he’s invisible.”
99
THE DOCTOR kicks us out of the room to evaluate Mary. I pass two armed federal marshals who are guarding Mary’s door and move into the hallway.
“We’ll find him,” I say. “I have some—”
“Go home, Emmy,” Books says, passing me.
I wait for him to turn back. He doesn’t.
“I’m not going home.”
“Well, you’re not staying here. This is for authorized personnel only. You are no longer authorized.”
I start after him. He’s always been a fast walker. “I can help you find him,” I say. “This is what I do best, Books. C’mon.”
Books reaches the elevator and pushes a button. “You’re done,” he says. “I’m done with you. I can’t command an operation when people openly disregard my direction. It undermines the entire unit. If you were an adult, you’d see that. But you’re not. You’re a child, Emmy. A child. And I’m done.” His hand knifes through the air. “I’m done.”
I shake my head, insolent—like a child, I suppose. “I can find him. I’m your best chance. Why would you give—”
“Sorry.” The elevator chimes and the doors part. Books steps in and turns to me. “You’re done.”
The doors begin to close. Along with my window of opportunity.
Books blocks the doors from closing and steps back out, getting so close to me that I find myself backpedaling.
“You think you can step on whomever you please and everyone has to just sit there and take it,” he hisses. “Why did you want me to run this case, Emmy?”
“I—”
“I’ll tell you why,” he says. “You wanted me to run this case because you figured you could walk all over me and do whatever you wanted, right?”
“No, as a matter of fact, I wanted you on this case because I knew the director would listen to you, and because you’re one of the best agents the Bur—”
“Oh, cut the shit, okay? If nothing else, I’m entitled to your honesty. You wanted someone you could manipulate, and you knew you could do that to me.” He wags his finger in my face. “Well, guess what? You’ve used me for the last time.”
“So a killer stays on the run that much longer because you can’t get over the fact that I wouldn’t marry you.”
Books draws back, his lips parting. “Wow. You are something.”
Yeah, that was over the line. “I’m—I’m sorry, Books. I didn’t mean that.”
Books works his jaw, avoiding eye contact. “If you don’t leave this hospital in the next five minutes, I’ll have you arrested.”
“Agent!” One of the federal marshals jogs down the hallway toward us. “Ms. Laney said she’s ready to talk some more.”
“Great,” Books says, grateful to exit this conversation.
“She, uh”—the marshal raises a shoulder in apology—“she said she wants Ms. Dockery there.”
Books drops his head and shakes it. Then he casts a look of steel in my direction. “Ms. Dockery has been relieved of her duties on this case.”
“Yes, sir, but…” The federal marshal clears his throat. “She said she’ll only talk to Ms. Dockery.”
With an audible groan, Books runs his fingers through his hair.
I can’t help smiling just a bit.
“Well, this is awkward,” I say.
Books storms past me, toward Mary’s room.
“Well, let’s go already!” he calls back to me.
100
“HE SEEMED so…normal,” says Mary Laney, her voice still raspy. She has fresh gauze covering her nose. The bruising surrounding her eyes now has a shade of blue to go with the purple and black. I can’t look at her without wanting to cry.
They found a Louisville Slugger aluminum baseball bat with Mary’s blood on it in her basement. That’s what Graham used to strike her face repeatedly, causing it to swell up like a hideous balloon.
An interesting choice Graham made there, the baseball bat. Is there a significance? I wouldn’t have expected him to torture Mary like he did his other victims. He wouldn’t burn her or scalp her or chisel away at the nerve centers at her knees and elbows and wrists. But why use a baseball bat? Why not just use a gun and do it quickly with one pull of the trigger?
“I mean, he was kind of odd and insecure,” Mary continues, “but he seemed totally harmless. Maybe…not comfortable with himself. But he lightened up the more we got to know each other. He was gentle and sweet.”
She looks at us with those words—at least I think she does, based on the turning of her head. Her eyes are so buried behind the swelling that it’s hard to see them move.
“I know that sounds crazy now,” she says.
“Not at all, Mary,” I say. “Winston Graham fooled a lot of people. He was masterful. He got women he’d never met, who lived alone, to let him into their homes. That takes a special kind of con artist.”
Mary scoops some ice chips into her mouth from a Styrofoam cup and sucks on them. “The first time I met him? He told me he was a serial killer.”
“Really,” I say. She doesn’t know that we read about their first exchange in one of the Graham Session transcripts. She doesn’t know those transcripts even exist. Books said he wants to wait before telling her.
“That was at the bar I work at,” she says. “He—” Mary raises a hand to her ear, as if talking on the phone. “He looked like he was recording his words on this contraption. He held it to his ear like a cell phone. I made a comment to him about it, and he seem
ed really interested in me after that. He told me he had killed a bunch of people. I just assumed he was kidding.”
“Like anybody would have,” I say.
Mary takes us through her several dates with Graham—dates that we already know about, but we play dumb. She doesn’t hit every detail that was recounted in the Graham Sessions but generally covers the same ground. The night he skulked into the bar to observe her while in disguise (“I guess that should have been the first tip-off,” she concedes before adding, “but it was flattering. Men don’t usually pay much attention to me”). Next they met for drinks after she got off work one night. Then their Saturday night date, the week that Graham took off from his murder spree. And then lying by the fireplace, kissing and nestling together, where they first broached the topic of having a serious relationship.
The conversation lasts for nearly three hours. Books, who is the best interviewer I’ve ever seen—patient, detailed—covers everything that they said and did, every emotion that Mary felt, while Mary holds my hand.
“This is incredibly embarrassing,” Mary says when it’s over. “You must think I’m an idiot.”
“I think you’re special,” I say. “And so did he. I think you got to him, Mary. I mean, he didn’t kill you, did he? He killed everyone else. And not just killed, Mary. He tortured them. Brutalized them. But not you. He had every reason to kill you, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. There was something different about you.”
“I just got lucky,” she said.
“It wasn’t luck,” Books says. “He was hitting you with an aluminum baseball bat. It would have been easy to kill you if he’d wanted to. Believe it or not, Mary, as bad as your facial injuries are, he didn’t hit you nearly as hard as he could have. Even one solid swing of that bat could have given you brain damage. I think he was hesitating.”
“You’re kidding,” she says.
“No. You see something similar with suicides. People who slit their wrists. At first, they hesitate, they can’t do it, so you’ll see minor, superficial cuts, before they drum up the nerve to actually open a vein. They’re called hesitation cuts. This is something like that.”
Invisible Page 22
