The Survivors Club

by Lisa Gardner

  Damn, he’d missed this place. Damn.

  “Welcome back, Griffin,” they’d say.

  “Thanks,” he’d say.

  “How are you feeling?” they’d ask.

  And he’d answer—

  In the left-hand lane, a blue Ford Taurus roared past, red lights flashing behind the grille. Then came two more unmarked police cars, sirens also screaming. What the hell?

  Griffin turned into the parking lot of state police headquarters just in time to see detectives pour out of ISSB and race for their state steels. He recognized two guys from the Criminal Identification Unit (CIU), Jack Cappelli and Jack Needham, aka Jack-n-Jack, climbing into the big gray crime-scene-investigation van. Then they had flipped on the lights and were peeling out of the lot.

  Griffin swung in front of the ISS building. He hadn’t even cut the motor before Lieutenant Marcey Morelli of Major Crimes was banging on his window.

  “Lieutenant.” He started to salute. Morelli cut him off.

  “Providence just called in reports of rifle fire and a major explosion at the Licht Judicial Complex. ATF and the state fire marshal get the explosion. We get the shooting. All units respond.”

  “A shooting at the courthouse?” His eyebrows shot up. No friggin’ way.

  “You been following the Como case? Sounds like somebody got tired of waiting for the trial. Better yet, the media’s already there, catching the before and the after. Can you say ‘Film at eleven’?”

  “Somebody up there hates you, Lieutenant.”

  “No kidding. Look, whatever just happened, we know it’s going to be big. I’ve already asked the detective commander for additional resources, plus I want all of Major Crimes down there ASAP. The uniforms can handle the canvassing, but I want you guys on initial interviews. Find out when, where, why, how, radio it to every uniform in the area so they can be on the lookout for the shooter, and hey, catch this guy yesterday. You know the drill.” Morelli paused long enough to take a breath, then narrowed her eyes as, for the first time, she truly saw his seated form. “Jesus Christ, Griffin, I thought you’d spent the time fishing or something like that.”

  “Well yeah. And some weights.” He shrugged modestly.

  “Uh huh.”

  “And some running.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Okay, boxing, too.”

  The lieutenant rolled her eyes. Griffin had spent the last year of his eighteen-month medical leave mastering the art of sublimation—funneling nonproductive tension into a productive outlet. He’d gotten pretty good at it. He could sustain a five-minute mile for nearly ten miles. He could box sixteen rounds. He could bench-press a Volvo.

  His body was good. His face was still a little too harsh—a man not sleeping well at night. But physically . . . Griffin was a lean, mean machine.

  The lieutenant straightened. “Well,” she said briskly, “The Boss is on his way. So get moving, Sergeant. And remember, there are only a hundred cameras about to document every step we take.”

  Lieutenant Morelli resumed running. Griffin sat there for one more moment, honestly a little dazed. My anxiety is operating within normal parameters, he thought stupidly. Ah fuck it. Back is back. He flipped on his lights and joined his fellow officers, roaring toward Providence.

  CHAPTER 3

  Jillian

  SHE IS DRIVING TO HER SISTER’S APARTMENT. WORK HAS held her up, she is running an hour late. Traffic is miserable, of course. Another accident on 195, when isn’t there an accident? She is thinking about all the things she still has to get done. Cash-flow analysis of the first six months. Cash-flow projection of the next six months. Storyboards for Roger. Copy proofs for Claire.

  Toppi called her at work to say that Libby was having a bad day. Please don’t stay out too late.

  She is driving to her sister’s apartment, but she is not thinking about her sister. She is not looking forward to dinner with Trish. It has become one more thing to do on a long list of things to do, and part of her suspects that this is bad. She has lost perspective. She has let her life get away from her. The rest of her is too busy to care.

  She has her responsibilities. She is the responsible one.

  Trisha is off to college. Trisha has her first apartment, tiny, cramped, but beautiful because it is all hers. Trisha has new friends, new life, new goals. She wants to be a playwright, she told Jillian excitedly last week. Before that she had wanted to study communications. Before that it had been English. Trish is young, beautiful, bright. The world is her oyster, and Jillian does not doubt that Trish will become exactly who she wants to become, doing exactly what she wants to do.

  And this pains her in a way she doesn’t understand. Lifts her up, pushes her down. She is the surrogate mother, proud of her child’s accomplishments. She is the tired older sister, feeling a nagging twinge of jealousy when she has nothing to be jealous of. Yes, her path was harder. No, she was never nineteen and carefree. No, she has never gotten to live on her own, not even now. But she went to college, earned a business degree. At thirty-six she runs a successful ad agency, calling all the shots. She didn’t sacrifice everything for her mother and sister. She carved out her own life, too.

  And yet . . .

  Visiting Trish is hard for her these days. She does not do it nearly as often as she should.

  Now, she drives around Thayer Street, looking for a place to park. The third week in May, the sun is just starting to set and the sidewalks are crowded with Brown University summer students, milling outside of Starbucks, the Gap store, Abercrombie & Fitch. Jillian still gets a twinge of unease over Trisha living in the city. Especially after the recent reports of two rapes, the second of which was only two weeks ago. One was over at Providence College, however, and the other was some woman in her home.

  Trisha knows about the attacks. They even talked about it last week. Some of the girls have started carrying pepper spray. Trish bought a canister as well. Plus she inspected the locks on her apartment. Her apartment is really very secure. A little basement studio, with only tiny windows set high in the wall and not big enough for a grown man to crawl through. Trisha had also installed a bolt lock when she signed her lease last spring. It’s a key in, key out kind of lock; supposedly one of the best money can buy.

  “I’ll be fine,” Trish told Jillian in that exasperated way only a teenager can manage. “For heaven’s sake, I’ve taken two courses in self-defense!”

  Jillian finally finds a parking spot deep down on Angell Street. She has a bit of a hike now to Trisha’s apartment, but that’s not unusual given the state of Providence’s parking. Plus, it’s a balmy, dusky evening and she could use the exercise.

  Jillian doesn’t have pepper spray. She contemplates this as she locks the door of her gold Lexus. She does what she’s seen on TV—she carries her car keys in her fist, with the biggest key sticking out between two fingers like a weapon. She also keeps her head up and her footsteps brisk. Of course, this comes naturally to her. She has never been the shrinking violet type. She likes to think that Trish got her independent spirit from her.

  Trisha lives at the edge of the Brown campus. Generally, they meet at her apartment, then walk to Thayer Street with its host of ethnic restaurants and upscale coffee shops. Jillian could go for some Pad Thai. Or maybe grilled lamb.

  For the first time, her footsteps pick up. Thayer Street has such great restaurants; it’s nice to be out and about on College Hill, with its youth and vitality. And the night is lovely, not too hot, not too cold. After dinner they can go for some ice cream. Trisha can tell her all about her summer internship at Trinity Theater, whether the set guy—Joe, Josh, Jon—has asked her out yet. There would be fresh gossip on her group of friends, of course, The Girls. Tales of adventure from their recent trip to Providence Place Mall, ladies’ night out in Newport, etc., etc.

  Jillian could relax, sit back, and let Trisha go. Tell me about every hour, minute, day. Tell me everything.

  For this is where the proud surr
ogate mother and tired older sister come together: they both love to listen to Trish. They love her enthusiasm. They cherish her excitement. They marvel at her wonder, a nineteen-year-old woman-girl, still learning about the world, still convinced she can make it a better place.

  Jillian arrives at Trisha’s apartment complex. Once, it was a grand old home. Now, the building is subdivided into eight units for the college crowd. As the basement renter, Trisha has her own entrance around back.

  Jillian rounds the house as the sun sinks lower on the horizon and casts the narrow alleyway into gloom. Trisha has a powerful outdoor spotlight above the back door. Jillian is slightly surprised, given the rapidly falling night, that Trish has not turned it on. She’ll mention it to her.

  At the door, Jillian raises her hand, she lets her knuckles fall. And then she catches her breath as the door soundlessly swings in to reveal the darkened stairs.

  “Trisha? Trish?”

  Jillian moves cautiously down the steps, having to use the handrail to guide her way. Had Trisha grown tired of waiting for her? Maybe she’d decided to start her laundry and had run down the street to the Laundromat. That had happened once before.

  At the bottom of the stairs is another door, this one wooden, simple. An inside bedroom door. Jillian puts her hand on the shiny brass-colored knob. She turns. The door sweeps open and Jillian is face-to-face with a deep-shadowed room.

  “Trisha?”

  She takes three steps in. She glances at the tiny kitchenette. She turns toward the bed, and—

  A force slams into her from behind. She cries out, her hands popping open, her car keys flying across the room, as she goes down hard. She catches herself with her left palm and promptly hears something crack.

  “Trish?” Her voice high-pitched, reedy, not at all like herself. The bed, the bed, that poor woman on the bed.

  “Goddamn bitch!”

  A weight is pressing against her back. Rough hands tangle in her hair. Her head is jerked back. She gasps for air. Then her head is slammed against the floor.

  Stars. She sees stars, and her scattered senses try to understand what is happening. It’s not a cartoon. There is no Coyote or Road Runner. This is her, in her sister’s apartment, and oh my God, she is under attack. That is not a store mannequin tied naked and spread-eagled to the bed. Trish, Trish, Trish!

  All of a sudden, Jillian is pissed off.

  “No!” she cries.

  “Fucking, fucking, fucking,” the man says. He has her hair again. Her head goes up. Her head goes down. Her nose explodes and blood and tears pour down her face. She whimpers, but then her rage grows even hotter. She must get this man! She must hurt this man! Because even in pain, even in shock, she has a deeper, instinctive understanding of what has just happened here. Of what this man just did to her sister.

  Her hands come out from beneath her, flailing wildly, trying to whack at the weight on her back. But her arms don’t bend that way, and he’s still beating her face and the world is now starting to spin. Her head goes back, her head goes forward. Her head goes back, her head goes forward . . .

  He is sliding down her back. He is rubbing against her and there is no mistaking his arousal. “I’m going to fuck you good,” the man says. He laughs and laughs and laughs.

  Jillian finally twists beneath his body. She beats at his thighs. She knits together the fingers on her right hand and tries to jab them into his ribs. And he whips her head from side to side to side until she can no longer feel the sting. She is in a dark, black place with a weight crushing her body and a voice stuck in her head and he is going to fuck her good.

  His left hand curls around her throat. It starts to squeeze. She tries to claw at his wrist, but encounters only latex.

  Oh no. Trish. Oh no.

  She must get him off. She can’t get him off. Her lungs are burning. She wants to fight. She wants to save her sister. Oh please stop, please.

  Somebody. Help us.

  The lights grow brighter behind her eyes. Her body slowly, surely, goes limp. The man finally loosens the grip his legs have on her ribs. His weight comes up off her body slightly.

  And she jabs her hand forward as hard as she can and nails him between the legs.

  The man howls. Rolls to the side. Clutches his balls. Jillian twists her shoulders, grabs at the floor, and tries to find something to pull herself free.

  And then the weight is completely gone. The man is gone. He is curled up on the floor and she’s gotta move. Phone, phone, phone. The kitchen counter. It’s on the kitchen counter. If she can just get to the phone, dial 911.

  Jillian pulls herself across the hardwood floor. Gotta move, gotta move. Trisha needs her. She needs her.

  Come on, Jillian.

  And then, before she even feels him, she hears him coming again.

  “No,” she whimpers, but she’s already too late.

  “Goddamn, fucking bitch! I’m gonna KILL you! I’m gonna SNAP your goddamn neck, I’m gonna pop out your fucking eyes. Goddamn . . .”

  He slams down upon her back and grabs her throat with his steely hands. Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze. Can’t swallow. Can’t breathe.

  Her chest, growing so tight. Her hands, plucking at his gloved hands. No, no, no.

  Come on, Jillian. Come on, Jillian.

  But he is too strong. She realizes this as the world begins to spin and her lungs start to burst. She is proud. She is smart. She is a woman who believes she controls her own life.

  But he is brute strength. And she is no match for him.

  She is sinking down. She wants to say something. She wants to reach out to her sister. She is so sorry. Oh Trish, oh Trish, oh Trish.

  And then, all of a sudden, the hands are gone.

  “Fuck!” Fast footsteps run across the room. Footsteps pounding up the stairs. A distant boom as the external door bursts open.

  Jillian draws a ragged, gasping breath of air. Like a drowning victim bursting free from water, she bolts upright, desperately dragging more oxygen into her lungs.

  He’s gone. He just . . . gone.

  The room is empty. It is over. She’s alive, she’s alive. She is not stronger. She is not more capable. But she is lucky.

  Jillian pulls herself unsteadily to her feet. She staggers across the room. She falls onto the bed next to her sister’s form.

  “Trish!” she cries out.

  And then, in the unending silence of the room, she realizes that she is not lucky at all.

  Seven A.M. Monday morning, Jillian Hayes remained prostrate on her bed. She stared up at the ceiling. She listened to the sound of her mother’s muffled snoring down the hall, then the faint beep, beep, beep of Toppi’s alarm clock going off for the first time. The adult-care specialist hit snooze right away. It would take three or four more alarms before Toppi actually got out of bed.

  Jillian finally turned her head. She looked out the window of her East Greenwich home, where the sun was shining bright. Then she looked at her dresser, where the manila envelope still lay in plain sight.

  Seven A.M. Monday morning. The Monday morning.

  The phone next to her bed bleated shrilly. Jillian immediately froze. It might be another reporter demanding a quote. Worse, it might be him. He probably hadn’t even started the ride to the courthouse yet. What did he wake up thinking about on a day like today?

  The phone rang again, loud and demanding. Jillian had no choice but to snatch it up; she didn’t want it to disturb her mother.

  “Did I wake you?” Carol asked in her ear.

  Jillian started breathing again. Of course it was Carol. Good ol’ Dan was probably up and out already. Heaven forbid that even on a day as important as this day, he stay at home with his wife. Jillian said, “No.”

  “I couldn’t sleep,” Carol said.

  “I now know every pattern on my ceiling.”

  “It’s funny. I feel so nervous. My stomach is tied in knots, my hands are shaking. I haven’t felt like this since, well”—Carol’s laugh wa
s brittle—“I haven’t felt like this since my wedding day.”

  “It will be over soon,” Jillian said quietly. “Do you think we should call Meg?”

  “She knows about breakfast.”

  “All right.”

  “What are you going to wear?”

  “A camel-colored pantsuit with a white linen vest. I laid it out last night.”

  “I went shopping. Nothing in my closet felt right. Then again, what do you wear for this sort of thing? I don’t know. I found this butter-yellow Chanel suit at Nordstrom. It was nine hundred dollars. I’m going to burn it when the day is done.”

  Jillian thought about her camel suit, then the coming day. “I’ll join you,” she said.

  Carol’s voice grew soft. “What did you do with the clothes you were wearing that day?”

  “When the police finally gave them back, I took them to the dry cleaners. And I’ve never . . . I’ve never picked them up.”

  “We’ll be thinking about Trisha today.”

  Jillian’s throat grew a little tight. “Carol . . . Thank you.”

  And then, of course, the most important question, the question the whole phone call had been about.

  “Do you know . . . Do you know what will happen?” Carol asked.

  Jillian’s gaze went back to the manila envelope on top of her dresser. Then she glanced at the clock. Seven-ten A.M. At least one hour to go.

  “No,” she said honestly. “But I guess we’re about to find out.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Waters

  NINE-OH-FIVE A.M. DOWNTOWN, THE SCENE WAS PRETTY much what Griffin had expected. Lots and lots of flashing lights. Very little organization. Even with an official vehicle and blaring horn, it took Griffin thirteen minutes to fight his way through the last three blocks around the courthouse. Almost immediately, he saw the problem. The media wasn’t just there. They were there.