Last to Die r-10

by Tess Gerritsen

  Inside La Nonna, Icarus and his party were finishing up their desserts. We were all in position when they finally emerged, the bodyguards first, followed by Icarus with his wife and sons. A heavy meal, washed down with glasses of excellent wine, had rendered Icarus mellow that evening, and he did not stop to scan his surroundings, but headed directly to his car. He helped his wife, Lucia, and their two sons into the Volvo, then slid behind the steering wheel. Right behind him, the bodyguards climbed into their BMW.

  Icarus was the first to pull away, into the road.

  At that instant the produce truck veered into position, lurching to an angled stop that blocked the BMW. The bodyguards climbed out, shouting at the truck driver to move, but he ignored them as he nonchalantly carried a crate of onions into La Nonna’s kitchen.

  That’s when the bodyguards realized their tire had been slashed, and they were stranded. An ambush. Icarus saw at once what was happening, and he reacted as we expected he would.

  He hit his accelerator and roared away, speeding toward the safety of his hilltop home.

  We were in the car right behind him. A second car, with two more members of our team, waited a hundred yards up the road. It cut into position just in front of Icarus, and the Volvo was now boxed between our two vehicles.

  The road narrowed as it wound up the hillside, carving hairpin turns. A blind curve was coming up, and the first car braked to slow down the Volvo. Our plan was to force it to a stop, to yank Icarus from the Volvo and bundle him into our vehicle. But instead of slowing, Icarus surprised us. Recklessly he accelerated, squeezing past the first car, with barely an inch to spare.

  No one saw the oncoming truck until it was too late.

  Icarus desperately swerved right, but that sent the Volvo into the guardrail. It caromed off and skidded.

  The truck hit it broadside, crumpling the passenger doors.

  Even before I scrambled out of my car, I knew that the wife was dead. I was the one who yanked open Icarus’s door, the one who first glimpsed the carnage inside. Lucia’s broken body. The destroyed face of the ten-year-old. And little Carlo, still conscious but dying. Carlo looked at me, and I saw the question in his eyes. It is a question that I still struggle to answer: Why?

  We dragged Icarus from the Volvo. Unlike his family, he was very much alive and fighting us. Within seconds we had his wrists and ankles bound. We tossed him into the backseat of my vehicle and threw a blanket over him.

  The hapless truck driver, dazed and light-headed from the collision, had no idea what had really happened. Later he would tell the police that Good Samaritans had stopped to rescue the Volvo’s driver, and must have brought him to a hospital. But our destination was a private airstrip forty-eight miles away, where a chartered jet was fueled and waiting.

  We had accomplished what we came to do, but this was not the way it should have ended, with three dead innocents. After any other successful mission, we would have celebrated with a round of whiskey and high fives. But that night we were subdued. Anxious about the repercussions to follow.

  We had no idea how terrible they would be.

  THIRTEEN

  WIND RATTLED THE WINDOWS OF DR. ANNA WELLIVER’S OFFICE, and from that lofty perch in the castle’s turret Jane saw black clouds rolling in from the mountains, moving inexorably toward them. A summer storm was coming, and the sound of the wind made Jane uneasy as she and Maura watched Dr. Welliver assemble a tray of teacups and saucers. Outside the view looked threatening, but inside the turret it was a cozy space with a floral sofa and incense sticks and crystals hanging in the window, a serene retreat where a traumatized child could curl into the overstuffed chair and safely share his darkest fears. The incense made it seem more like the parlor of an eccentric earth mother than a therapist’s office, but then Welliver was eccentric, with her wild gray hair and granny dresses and orthopedic shoes.

  “I’ve had about forty-eight hours to observe the boy,” said Dr. Welliver. “And I must say, I have concerns.” On the side table, the electric kettle began to hiss and burble, and she rose to pour steaming water into a porcelain teapot.

  “What problems do you see?” asked Jane.

  “Superficially, he seems to be settling in remarkably well. He appeared to enjoy the first day of classes. Ms. Duplessis said he reads well above his grade level. Mr. Roman coaxed him into shooting a few arrows at archery class. And last night, I discovered him in the computer room, surfing YouTube.”

  Jane glanced at Maura. “You can’t make a cell phone call here, but you can surf the Web?”

  “We can’t hold back the digital age,” said Dr. Welliver with a laugh. She settled heavily back into her chair, her dress puffing up like a tent around her generous body. “Of course we block inappropriate websites, and our students know they’re never to reveal any personal information. Not their locations, not their names. It’s a matter of safety.”

  “For these children, in particular,” said Maura.

  “The point I was trying to make,” said Dr. Welliver, “is that Teddy has, to all appearances, adjusted very well to this new environment. He even seems to have made a few friends.”

  “So what’s the problem?” asked Jane.

  “At my session with him yesterday, I discovered quite a few things he doesn’t remember—or chooses not to remember—about his birth family.”

  “You do know there’s a reason he can’t remember the night they died.”

  “I know they were killed aboard their sailboat off Saint Thomas. And there was an explosion that made Teddy black out. But I can’t help wondering if that explosion is the whole explanation for his memory gaps. When I ask him about his family, he tries to avoid all my questions. He deflects. Says he’s hungry or needs to use the bathroom. Occasionally, he still refers to members of his family in the present tense. He simply doesn’t want to deal with that loss at all.”

  “He was only twelve years old,” said Maura. “Still a tender age.”

  “It’s been two years. That’s time enough for him to have processed his loss, the way our other students have. There’s a lot of work to be done with Teddy. To get him past this denial stage. To accept his family is gone.” She looked at Jane. “It’s a good thing you brought him here, Detective. I hope you’ll let him stay.”

  “This was an emergency move,” said Jane. “It’s not my decision where he stays in the long term.”

  “Last night, the Evensong board unanimously agreed to accept Teddy, all expenses paid. Please convey that to the state of Massachusetts. We do want to be of service.”

  “I’ll tell you how you can really be of service,” said Jane. “Tell me about the other two students. Claire Ward and Will Yablonski.”

  Welliver stood to pour the herbal tea, which had been brewing. In silence she filled the cups and served her visitors, then she sat down and stirred several generous spoonfuls of sugar into her tea. “This is a delicate matter,” she finally said. “Sharing confidential files about our students.”

  “I’ve got a delicate matter, too,” said Jane. “I’m trying to keep Teddy alive.”

  “Why do you think there’s a connection among these three children?”

  Maura said, “The coincidence is eerie. That’s why I called Jane, because there are so many parallels. Three different families, the Wards, the Yablonskis, and the Clocks, were all killed the same year. Even the same week. Now, two years later, their surviving children are attacked again. Within weeks of one another.”

  “Yes, I agree it is odd.”

  “It’s way more than odd,” said Jane.

  “But it’s merely a coincidence.”

  Jane leaned forward to look straight into Dr. Welliver’s eyes. “How can you so easily dismiss the possibility there’s a connection?”

  “Because these families were killed in different locations. Teddy Clock’s family died on their sailboat off Saint Thomas. Claire’s parents were shot to death in London.”

  “And Will’s parents? The Yablonski
s?”

  “They died when their private plane went down, in Maryland.”

  Jane frowned. “I thought they were murdered. That sounds more like an accident.”

  Dr. Welliver turned and looked out the glass door to the rooftop walkway, where mist was swirling in the wind. “I’ve probably told you far too much already. These are my patients, and they trust me to keep their secrets. I feel bound by rules of confidentiality.”

  Jane said, “You know, I could just pick up the phone and talk directly to law enforcement. I could get those details myself. Why don’t you make my life easier and just tell me. Was that plane crash an accident?”

  Dr. Welliver was silent for a moment as she weighed her response. “No, it wasn’t an accident,” she finally said. “NTSB concluded that the plane was sabotaged. But again, there’s no obvious link with the other two families. Except for the manner of their deaths.”

  “Excuse me for saying this,” said Jane, “but drawing that conclusion is my job, not yours. Most likely it is a coincidence, but I have to proceed as if it’s by design. Because if I miss something, we could end up with three dead kids.”

  Welliver set down her teacup and studied Jane for a moment, as if trying to gauge her determination. At last, she rose from her chair and shuffled to the filing cabinet, where she rooted inside for a chart. “The Yablonskis’ plane went down soon after takeoff,” she said. “Neil Yablonski was at the controls when it happened. He and his wife were the only ones aboard. At first, it was presumed to be an accident.” She brought Will’s file back to the desk and handed it to Jane. “Then the NTSB found forensic evidence of explosives. The investigators searched for a motive, for any reason why this particular couple was targeted. They never came up with an answer. Luckily their son, Will, wasn’t on board his parents’ plane that day. He’d chosen to spend the weekend with his aunt and uncle, so he could work on a science project.”

  Jane opened the folder and scanned the Evensong School’s intake form.

  Fourteen-year-old white male with no known surviving family members. Referred by the state of New Hampshire after a fire of suspicious origin destroyed the home of his aunt and uncle, Brian and Lynn Temple, who have served as his guardians since his parents’ deaths two years ago …

  Jane read the next paragraph and looked up at Welliver, who was adding yet a fourth teaspoon of sugar to her cup of herbal tea. “The kid was briefly considered a suspect in the New Hampshire fire?”

  “The police had to consider that possibility, because Will was the sole survivor. He told them he was outside looking through his telescope when the house exploded. A passing motorist spotted the flames and stopped to help. She’s the one who brought the boy to the emergency room.”

  “The kid just happened to be outside looking through his telescope?”

  “Will’s father and his uncle were both NASA scientists who worked at Goddard Space Flight Center in Maryland. It’s not surprising that Will’s an amateur astronomer.”

  “So the kid’s a geek,” said Jane.

  “You could call him that. Which is why the police considered him a suspect, if only briefly, because he certainly has the intelligence to build a bomb. But he had no motive.”

  “That they know of.”

  “From what I’ve observed, Will is a very well-behaved boy with excellent academic skills, especially math. I see no aggression whatsoever. Socially he’s a bit awkward. His aunt and uncle homeschooled him in New Hampshire, so he didn’t have much interaction with other children. That may be one of the reasons he’s not quick to make friends.”

  “Why was he homeschooled?” asked Maura.

  “He had problems back in Maryland. The poor boy was teased and bullied.”

  “Why?”

  “Because of his weight.” Dr. Welliver looked down at her own large frame, only partly disguised by the voluminous dresses she always wore. “Most of my life, I’ve struggled with my own weight, so I know what it’s like to be ridiculed. Children can be especially cruel, zeroing in on the fact Will’s heavy, and also a bit clumsy. Here we intervene at once if we see any bullying going on, but we’re not omniscient. Despite any teasing, Will’s always cheerful and good-natured. He’s kind to the younger children. He’s a reliable student who’s never in trouble.” Welliver paused. “Unlike the girl.”

  “Claire Ward,” said Jane.

  Welliver sighed. “Our little nocturnal wanderer.” She pushed out of her chair and went back to the filing cabinet to look for Claire’s chart. “Now, this child has caused us multiple headaches. Most of them related to her neurologic issues.”

  “What do you mean, neurologic issues?”

  Welliver straightened and looked at her. “Claire was with her parents the night they were attacked in London. All of them were shot in the head. Only Claire survived.”

  In the distance, thunder rumbled, and the sky had turned ominously dark. Jane looked down at her own arm and saw that the hairs had lifted, as if a cool wind had just blown across her skin.

  Welliver placed Claire’s folder in front of Jane. “It happened as the family was walking to their car after dining in a restaurant. Claire’s father was Erskine Ward, a foreign service officer who’d worked in London, Rome, and Washington. Her mother, Isabel, was a homemaker. Because of Erskine’s job at the US embassy, there was concern that this might have been a terrorist attack, but in the end the police concluded it was a robbery gone wrong. Claire couldn’t help the investigation because she couldn’t remember the attack. The first thing she does remember is waking up in the hospital, after surgery.”

  “For a girl who was shot in the head, she seems amazingly normal now,” said Jane.

  “At first glance, she does look perfectly normal.” Welliver looked at Maura. “Even you didn’t immediately spot her deficits, did you, Dr. Isles?”

  “No,” Maura admitted. “They’re subtle.”

  “When the bullet was fired into her head,” said Welliver, “it resulted in what’s called diaschisis. It’s Greek for ‘shocked thought.’ At the age of eleven, her brain was still relatively plastic, so she’s been able to recover almost all function. Her language and motor skills are virtually normal, as is her memory. Except for that night in London. Prior to the attack, she was an excellent student, even gifted. But I’m afraid she’ll never be an academic star now.”

  “But she can still live a normal life?” said Jane.

  “Not entirely. Like many head-injury patients, she’s impulsive. She takes risks. She says things without much thought about the consequences.”

  “Sounds like a typical teenager.”

  Dr. Welliver gave a knowing laugh. “True. Teenage brain is a diagnosis in and of itself. But I don’t think Claire’s ever going to grow out of this. Impulse control will always be an issue for her. She loses her temper, blurts out what she thinks. It’s already caused problems. She has a feud going on with another girl here. It started with some name calling, nasty notes. Accelerated to tripping, shoving. Clothes vandalized, earthworms in the bed.”

  “Sounds like me and my brothers,” said Jane.

  “Except you, hopefully, grew out of it. But Claire’s always going to leap before she looks. And that’s especially dangerous, given her other neurologic issue.”

  “Which is?”

  “Her sleep–wake cycle has been completely disrupted. That happens to many head-injured patients, but most of them suffer from excessive drowsiness. They sleep more than normal. Claire, for some reason, had a paradoxical result. She’s restless, especially at night, when she seems to be hyperacute. She seems to need only four hours of sleep a day.”

  “The night I arrived,” said Maura, “I saw her down in the garden. It was well after midnight.”

  Welliver nodded. “That’s when she’s most active. She’s like a nocturnal creature. We call her our midnight rambler.”

  “And you allow her to just wander around in the dark?” said Jane.

  “When she was living in It
haca, there was nothing her foster family could do to stop it. They tried medications, locked doors, threats of punishment. This is going to be Claire’s baseline behavior for the rest of her life, and she needs to learn to deal with it. She’s not a prisoner here, so we decided not to treat her as one.”

  “By allowing her to run wild at night?”

  “Fortunately there aren’t many things that can hurt you in the Maine woods. We have no poisonous snakes, no large predators, and our black bears are more terrified of us than we are of them. The biggest danger is that she’ll step on a porcupine, or sprain an ankle stumbling into some animal burrow. This is simply Claire’s nature, and it’s a condition she’ll have to live with. Frankly, it’s far safer for her to wander here in the woods than in any big city.”

  Jane could not argue with that statement; she knew only too well where the most dangerous predators were found. “And after she graduates from Evensong? What happens to her then?”

  “When that time comes, she’ll have to make her own choices. Meanwhile, we’re giving her the skills to survive. That’s our purpose here, Detective. It’s the reason this school exists, so these children can find their places in the world. A world that hasn’t been kind to them.” Welliver pointed toward the filing cabinet. “We have dozens of students like Claire, some so traumatized when they arrived that they could barely talk. Or they’d wake up every night screaming. But children are resilient. With guidance, they can bounce back.”

  Jane opened Claire’s file. Like Will’s, it included an initial psychological evaluation by Dr. Welliver. She turned to a summary of the Ithaca PD investigation. “How did Claire end up living with this particular couple, the Buckleys?”

  “Bob and Barbara Buckley were friends of Claire’s parents, and her designated guardians in their will. They had no children of their own. When they took in Claire, they certainly got a handful.”

  Jane stared at the police report summing up the Buckleys’ deaths and looked up at Maura. “Someone plowed into their car. Shot them both in the head.”